


Andromeda Unbound

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [16]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, BAMF!Makino, F/M, Family, In which I reimagine the Reverie arc the way I would have liked it to go, Loving Marriage, Rescue Mission, Romance, Unlikely alliances, and everyone teams up to crash Shanks' execution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2020-12-17 03:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 78,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: She's never set foot off the docks.It's a truth she's shaped her life around. Often she'll say it with a chuckle, to soften the ruthless fact of her sheltered upbringing. Sometimes it's an excuse, so she won't have to deal with what it might mean to change it. Many times she's wondered if she would ever dare, and more times still she's imagined herself doing it, bold, brave,pirate. But most often, it's said with the knowledge that it will remain that way; that there's no reason to challenge it.Her husband's execution changes things.





	1. Perseus, chained

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been talking about writing this fic for a while, so here we are!
> 
> This story begins the morning before Shanks and Makino’s parting in the last scene in [Siren's Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428275), and diverts from the canon storyline right after Shanks’ surprise appearance in Mariejois, which for the sake of this fic will take place a while before the Reverie. It will then follow the Reverie arc, but as I tend to avoid dabbling too much in incomplete canon story arcs, it will disregard Wano entirely (meaning the Straw-Hats will make an appearance, just don’t ask why they’re not in Wano).
> 
> I hope you'll like it!

It was a uniquely awful feeling, waking up on the mornings he was set to leave her.

Usually, the first seconds of coming awake were the kindest of the day, soft feathers cushioning the descent into the waking world; a realm that both was and wasn’t. Nothing ever really existed there, no obligations or worries, and even you were only half-real, your body not yet solid, your skin gossamer and dreamlike. It was the closest to pure, undiluted peace you could get, Makino thought; that brief moment before resurfacing.

But on these mornings there was no cushioning the descent, and she knew before she even opened her eyes, finding Shanks already awake and looking at her. It was the only time he was awake before her, as though he had been a while, content to simply watch her sleep. She might have found it endearing if she hadn’t also hated the reason.

“No,” she said, obstinate, and pulled the pillow over her head. She heard him chuckle, the warm sound reaching for her before he did.

“_No?_”

His hand slid over her hip, big and warm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the soft underside of her breast, making her breath hitch even as she didn’t remove the pillow.

“I was actually hoping I’d get to _ look _ at my wife, the last few hours I have with her,” Shanks rumbled. “My imagination could never do you justice, so short of taking some racy pictures of you, I’m left trying to commit your beautiful body to memory, and you’re not really helping.”

There was a gentle teasing in his voice, the rich timbre deepened from sleep, but the underlying sincerity was what made her remove the pillow, and his smile softened despite the despairing look on her face. “There she is,” he murmured. And as though for cheeky emphasis, he gave a tug at the sheets, pulling them off and baring her where she lay on her side.

Curving his knuckles, he brushed the curve of her breast, goosebumps firming it, to his open delight, before his broad hand settled across the dip of her waist, dwarfing it easily. She felt the scrape of his sword-callouses, and the heat of his palm where it seeped through her skin.

His eyes lifted to hers, hooded and grey like the morning. “You know, I wasn’t kidding about the racy pictures.”

Makino shoved the pillow in his face to smother his laughter. “How can you be _ cheerful?_” Her voice carried a shrill pitch, and the roughness of unshed tears.

Lifting the pillow, Shanks tossed it off the bed. His smile this time didn’t reach his eyes, and there was no teasing in his voice when he asked her, “Is that what I am?”

Her lower lip wobbled, and she tucked it between her teeth stubbornly, and had to drop her gaze from his, unable to bear the look in them.

“Hey,” he said gently, gripping her chin with his thumb to make her look at him. There was a serious pitch to his voice this time that made her shiver. “I hope you know how much I hate this.”

Her look softened. And maybe it would have been easier to bear him leaving if he hadn’t been looking at her like that; if he’d only bid her goodbye and until next time, but it was infinitely harder seeing her own longing reflected back at her, and without apology. And he never apologised for his feelings, something she’d always admired about him.

She tried to be just as unapologetic, and that included the feelings she wasn’t proud of, like fear and selfishness.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Makino murmured, and for all her lack of apology, her voice wasn’t as firm as she would have liked, and she saw how his gaze softened, a kinder warmth although the naked desire in it remained.

“I know,” Shanks said, reaching for her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I’d rather stay here, too.” His beard scuffed her skin, and she shivered when he nipped playfully at her fingers. “We could spend the day doing nothing.” Grinning, he brushed his lips to the delicate skin of her wrist, just over her pulse. She felt the deep purr of his voice, and his gaze hooded where it flicked to hers. “Or each other. I know which one I’d vote for personally.”

Her smile was helpless, watching him where he lay, as comfortable in his nakedness as he’d always been, something almost obscenely beautiful about the shape of him, the powerful frame, the broad chest where she skimmed her fingers across it, and the coiled muscles in his arm where it draped over her hip. Like some coyly positioned heroic statue made only more stunning for its imperfections: the missing arm, and the scars carved into his skin.

Only there was nothing of lifeless marble about him, his sun-darkened skin so warm she could feel the heat coming off him, or the rugged scruff of his beard, and the dark hair climbing down his chest towards his abdomen, the taut muscles twitching, as though in cheeky response to her eager observation. And least lifeless of all was the wide, wicked grin that stretched across his whole face, deepening the lines lovingly etched there, and the deep, gratified chuckle that left him at her shameless appreciation, a breathlessly erotic sound. No statue looked like this.

Pulling her close, Shanks kissed her hair, and sighed his laughter against her crown, his fingers tucking a tangled snarl behind her ear. “I take it back,” he said, his voice roughened with something other than sleep. “If I could have a picture of you, it would be with that look on your face.”

Her own laugh shuddered with her breath, and when she wrapped her arms around him he only held her tightly, his palm warm where it spanned her shoulder blades, as he kissed the top of her head and breathed out deeply, a sound of unspeakable contentment.

And it wasn’t just his ease at being bared before her that held her captive, but his ease in just _ being _with her, and that defied what was coming, as though he did fully intend to stay there all day with her. And that was another thing she admired about him, even envied him: his ability to always live fully in the moment, to commit himself so thoroughly to it, and to her while she had him. She’d heard of sailors who were never fully present, whose sea-longing was so consuming their mind was always somewhere else, even home with wives and lovers, but Makino didn’t recognise those stories.

He was never anywhere else when he was with her; was always there, from the moment he set foot onto her docks to the very last second before she let him go.

She still found it hard to believe some days, that he was hers―that he’d come back, and kept coming back. Her doubts had never been about fidelity, or where his heart lay, not truly; it was the hearts of others that worried her, entrusting the world with the one she loved more than anything.

And it was all too easy to forget, with the soft sheets and his naked body against hers, that this would be the last time in who knew how long that she’d get to hold him like this; that she’d be going to bed alone tonight, and many nights following. And she hadn’t married him to keep him, but sometimes she couldn’t help it. She loved him so much it terrified her, the things it made her feel capable of doing.

But she was only one person. She couldn’t stand against the world.

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you,” Shanks said then, his nose pressed to her crown.

Makino shook her head. “I’m not worried about myself.”

It sat between them; the things she didn’t say. But she knew where he was going. They’d talked about him appealing to the Five Elders. They’d never allow a pirate to set foot in the Holy Land, but when she’d asked him about how he planned to secure an audience, Shanks had only smiled, and told her he had his ways; that despite his notorious contempt of subtlety, he could move unseen if he wished. And she couldn’t exactly argue with that. She knew how they’d arrived during the war, and how they’d moved in and out of East Blue without drawing anyone’s notice for two years.

She didn’t think his confidence was misplaced, but she couldn’t help but worry. Mariejois had always existed in her mind as something removed from reality, a city of silver bells and marble streets, too beautiful to conceive, but then that was perhaps the image they relied on―that those who resided there weren’t real; that they were closer to gods than humans. And that kind of thinking corrupted, corroded the silver and the dreams of godhood. The streets of the white city were cleaned with the blood of slaves.

She didn’t want him going there, didn’t want him to so much as set foot inside those walls, but she couldn’t tell him that, and felt foolish for being afraid for him, when Shanks wasn’t.

“Makino.” His finger hooking under her chin tipped it up, as he ducked his gaze to catch hers. “Come on. Honesty hour.”

Meeting his eyes, she folded her lips. She’d never said this out loud. It had hung between them, unspoken, but given that it wasn’t something she could control in any way, there’d been no reason for her to bring it up. But looking at him, his handsome features rugged with sleep and the fact that he hadn’t groomed his beard in a few days, a private intimacy in seeing him this way that belonged to no one else, made her suddenly afraid she’d never see him again.

Before she could talk herself out of it, “I’m scared something will happen to you,” Makino said, her voice hoarse, tear-choked. “It’s eating me up.”

It was a fear she’d been carrying for years; of opening the newspaper to discover that something had happened to him, and of having to read about it there first. Or that every time someone called, there was a split second where she feared it would be about him.

Shanks’ gaze softened, and she knew he’d read all her thoughts off her face, but then she couldn’t hide anything from him.

A curious look had entered his eyes, and, “What?” Makino murmured.

He shook his head. Touching his thumb to the corner of her eye, he caught the tear when she blinked it away. “Nothing. You’ve just never said that to me sober before.”

She blinked, her brows dipping in confusion, but before she could ask, Shanks kissed her, his fingers dipping into her hair as they shifted to cradle the back of her head. Sinking into the kiss, Makino curled her hand around his neck, her palm pressed to his chest where his heart beat, as steady as always where she pressed herself against his big frame.

Drawing back, the dazed flutter of her eyes was met with a boyish grin, his eyes curving where they took her in, seeming to linger on her face.

“I know you’re worried.” Releasing her neck, his fingers grazed her shoulder, before he cupped it with his palm, his hand dwarfing the small curve. He was looking at it, his thumb brushing her collarbone when he said, “The way things are right now, I don’t blame you.”

“It’s just―” she began, her tongue stumbling, but it was hard putting her fear into words when she could barely describe it to herself. “It’s Blackbeard. And the World Government. I don’t know which makes me more afraid at this point.”

She might have longed for a time where she didn’t know what it meant, for him to be who he was. She’d been ignorant once, at least beyond what she could extrapolate from reading the paper, and talking to Garp. But she was wiser now about the laws that governed this sea, and knew it wasn’t as simple as just drawing a line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and calling it a day. Not that she’d ever believed in a dichotomy that black and white, but her worldview was a different one now, and not in a small part because of her own position, which wasn’t the same as it had been.

Her eyes roamed his face, so different from the one the world saw, in the newspaper and on his wanted poster. The deep, smiling lines etched at the corners of his eyes, and the warmth in them where they beheld her, like he could watch her forever and never grow tired.

She touched her fingers to his cheek, brushing the scars there, and watched as his eyes slipped shut. “Just be careful, Shanks.”

His smile tilted, as he cracked one eye open to look at her. “Aye,” he told her, honestly. “I have too much to lose to be anything else.”

When she lowered her gaze, “Hey,” he said, gently gripping her chin. “The sea might be changing, but I haven’t. And I’ll be fine.” Flashing her a roguish grin, he raised his brows. “I’m notoriously difficult to catch. Ask anyone in New Marineford and they’ll tell you. I’ve been a thorn in their side for _ years_. I aspire to be a little while longer.”

His eyes twinkled, holding hers. And the implication was there; the suggestion that there’d be a day where he wouldn’t need to be, because he’d choose it.

Makino huffed, but couldn’t help the smile, or the tears. “You better not get caught then.” Her hands cupped his cheeks, her thumbs sweeping through his beard. Her attempt at a warning tone was ruined by the slight crack in her voice. “I want you back in one piece.”

Turning his head, he kissed the centre of her palm. “I should be able to manage that. I’m not planning on losing any more limbs.”

She had a mind to tell him what she thought of his particular brand of inappropriate humour, but couldn’t manage anything but a stupid grin, and the pang within her, knowing she would miss his way of making her laugh despite herself more than anything.

Drawing a breath, she steeled herself, and when she let it go, forced her fears to go with it. It was a ritual of hers, the moment where she accepted what she had to, and what it meant being married to him. And this was her strength, although there weren’t many who’d readily call it that who didn’t know how much it took to let someone go. But she knew as well as Shanks did, the necessity of certain actions; the sacrifices that were sometimes necessary to make. Just because hers were different from his didn’t make them any easier.

But she’d done this many times, had endured it as many times as a heart could manage, letting him go when she had to. She could do it one more time.

“Come home when this is over,” Makino said, and was glad when it sounded a little more like an order this time, and saw his smile where it answered it.

Ducking his head down, he kissed her stomach, his beard scuffing her skin where his lips sought the soft mound that still remained from her pregnancy, as Shanks murmured, “When I come back, I’ll put another one in you.”

Makino blurted a laugh, a deep and throaty sound that almost wasn’t like her, and expecting to find his grin dirty, was surprised by the earnestness in his expression where he lifted his gaze back to hers.

She thought about it, her belly growing again, the longing seizing her of having that future with him, and more children.

Reaching for his jaw, she tipped his head up. “Promise?”

“It’ll be the first thing I do,” Shanks said, his grin familiar and wolfish. “Might have to give the guys a warning, though. Not that they’d be surprised―there are already bets flourishing about the next one.”

His hand hovered over her belly, and for a moment he seemed like he meant to say something, before Makino took it, wrapping her own around it, tiny in comparison but her grip firm. “Don’t,” she said gently. “Worry about that when we get there.”

_ When_, again. The word sat a little firmer on her tongue with every speaking. She wondered idly if she could will it to be true if she repeated it enough times.

“See,” Shanks murmured, his palm still splayed over her belly where he’d rolled over on his back, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. “I’ve got my own worries. What a pair we make.”

She hummed, her arms crossed over his chest as she rested her cheek on them, holding his gaze. “Peas in a pod.”

His smile this time was odd. “My pea,” he said, with a curious inflection. “I’ll miss your advice.”

She snorted softly, before she saw from his expression that he was serious. “It’s the advice of someone who’s never been off the docks of her own village,” Makino pointed out.

Shanks didn’t flinch. “You’ve got more insight than you give yourself credit. There’s a reason Ben keeps saying he wishes you were the captain.”

This time her snort dragged a startled laugh with it, but when she gave him a playful shove, Shanks only looked at her, as though to say _ oh, you think I’m joking? _

“You’re my wife,” Shanks said, a statement so simple, it shouldn’t be able to say as much as it did, or leave her feeling acutely short of breath. “I didn’t marry you just for your proximity to good liquor, however convenient that detail is.”

Pursing her mouth, Makino couldn’t manage anything but to shake her head, although didn’t know what she was denying. But she felt his hand where it cupped her cheek, his thumb catching the tears she hadn’t been able to keep from filling her eyes.

Pulling her close, he pressed her to his chest, and when she breathed out she wrapped her arms around him tightly, too small to reach all the way around his back. Tucking her nose to his chest, she sighed a hum when Shanks kissed the top of her head, content to feel, even for just a moment, that she could keep him there.

They lay together for a while, not talking. Beyond her bedroom window, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting her bedroom in a soft glow, and her bed where they lay entwined, her small body in his. In the distance, she could just vaguely discern the cries of the seagulls by the docks. Makino listened to the sound, which had come to herald partings, but then they always said goodbye on the docks, her feet above the water, just above the threshold into his world, but never further.

Shanks was playing with her hair, the action unhurried and tender. His heart beat a steady rhythm under her ear, and the arm holding her was strong and firm, like the rest of him, but then he’d always exuded strength and vitality, and the unshakeable impression that he was untouchable, at least by mortal weaknesses. The only exception was the time he’d been recovering from his amputation, when she’d been brutally reminded that he was mortal, and capable of being hurt.

She couldn’t see it, tucked away in the drawer of her nightstand now, but she thought of the sheaf of paper he’d given her the day before; what Shanks had called a vivre card. She’d know if something were to happen to him, if he was hurt, although thinking about it, Makino didn’t know if the knowledge comforted her, or the opposite.

But she hadn’t wanted to give the card back. Even now, she would have refused if he’d asked her.

Suddenly reckless, she let her breath go, and felt how he noticed as his hand stilled in her hair, but before he could ask she’d lifted her head from his chest and sought his mouth in a kiss.

If he was leaving in a few hours, she meant to spend them productively.

His laughter rumbled through his chest, having caught on to what she wanted, but then it wasn’t hard to miss, and he was never hard to beg.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to keep me here through entirely coercive means,” he chuckled, the words shaped by his grin, and spoken against her mouth between kisses.

She bit his lip for that, and in retaliation his hand left her hair to grip her bare hip, and when he rolled her over on her back she gasped, finding him already hard where his length brushed against her sex. Her hips lifted in response, grinding against him, and she heard the near-guttural groan that left him as he bent down to kiss her roughly, his hand pressed to the mattress by her ear, holding his weight above her.

Bending down, Shanks kissed her chest, her small breasts, rough lips hovering over the gentle divot of her sternum, and Makino breathed out, opening her legs further as he settled into her, his big frame finding the softer curves of her body, sliding his fingers over her hollows, her hips, the curls between her thighs until he lay between her legs. Watching him, Makino thought she could have kept him there forever, and saw his brows lifting at the look on her face, and the grin that stretched along his mouth, dirty and yet unbearably tender.

“I’m still yours for a few more hours,” he said, planting kisses along her thigh.

“Just a few more hours?”

His eyes swept up, and the sight of his grin between her legs was something she was far too timid to admit she loved as much as she did. “I’m at your_ service _ was what I meant,” Shanks corrected, although he didn’t need to, but then he didn’t really believe she was asking because she didn’t know.

“Hm,” Makino hummed. “A Pirate Emperor at my service. You’ll give me delusions of grandeur at this rate.”

“No delusions,” Shanks said honestly, laying his cheek against her thigh, his beard rough and causing her to shiver. “Not when it’s true, and I wish you’d give your importance more credit, too.” He met her eyes, his own soft. “I have no doubt about how great it is.”

Makino huffed, soft, but couldn’t help her smile. “I’d accuse you of flattering me to get under my skirts, but I feel like it’s a little redundant with your head between my thighs.”

“You have to admit it looks good there.” He raised his brows, his grin stretching, utterly filthy, and causing a needy ache between her legs. “Maybe _that_ should be my new wanted poster photo.”

Her snort dissolved into soft laughter, her head falling back onto the pillow. The feelings she’d woken up with were hard to grasp, as though there was no room for them within her, filled up with affection and that knee-weakening desire he inspired so easily.

“Come on,” Shanks said, his voice suddenly firm, which had her brows quirking, only for him to explain, “If I’m going to leave you so thoroughly fucked you’ll be too busy coming down to miss me, we’re going to have to start now. Our adorable progeny hasn’t announced himself yet, and if he knows what’s good for daddy, he’ll give him an hour.”

She breathed a laugh, catching on a faint moan when his beard brushed the soft inside of her thigh. Her voice when it left her did so in a shudder, “I give him five minutes before he’s up.”

She felt the gentle bite of his teeth, and her next moan was louder, her fingers reaching to trace the broad span of his shoulders and down his arm, gripping it with her small hand, which splayed didn’t even span the width of his bicep. “Bite your tongue,” Shanks rumbled.

Her laugh left her in a soft hum as she tightened her grip, feeling the thick cord of muscle, and her moan this time was deliberate. “I have a feeling I will if you keep going down.”

She caught his grin where it flashed, before he ducked his head between her thighs and kissed her, agonisingly gently, making her toes curl, and a whimper leaving her when he did nothing else.

“Are you biting your tongue yet?”

She gave a sharp tug at his hair in response to the glib remark, and heard him laughing, louder this time, but he stopped when she _ shushed _ him, even as she couldn’t stifle her giggles from ruining her furious whisper, “You’ll wake him!”

Pinching his lips, Shanks lifted his head, wearing the most innocent expression he could manage with her knees over his ears, and she could only shake her head, her chest filled with that indescribable feeling, unable to reconcile this man with the one whose wanted poster was used to scare the greenest of the navy recruits into obedience.

“Hey,” she said, softly. Reaching down, Makino cupped her cheek with her palm, surrendering any attempt at humour for an achingly honest, “I love you.”

His innocent grin slipped, and for a moment she thought he looked too overcome to say anything, a fact made more evident by the way he ducked his head to kiss her stomach, the touch of his lips lingering over the soft mound and her stretch marks, the gesture a remnant from her pregnancy and holding a deliberateness that left her hand shaking where she’d cupped it loosely around the back of his head.

He was rarely without speech, and it was a gentle sort of pride that found her now, at the small power.

“So,” Shanks said roughly, nuzzling her skin as she threaded her fingers through his hair. His breath was hot against her, his mouth unbearably close, and she felt his grin where it touched her, so gently she had to bite off the whimper that left her.

“Would it be really insensitive given the nature of our earlier conversation to suggest chaining me up and putting me on trial?”

Startled, her laugh leaped free of her, and this time it was his turn to smother it with his hand, chiding, but it didn't rouse their son, even as she couldn't keep it from spilling forth, muffled by his fingers over her mouth, and she heard his own where it answered, a deeper sound before he bent his head between her thighs, and she forgot what it was she'd been so worried about.

―

The sound of her laughter wasn’t as clear as it had been when he’d left her, weeks ago now, but thinking back, Shanks could almost recall it; the high, bell-like lilt, and the softness of her skin where she’d lain against him that morning. The way he’d made her laugh, even though she’d much rather have wept.

He thought of her often, but never as much as the moments when he stood between decisions; where he thought he would have given anything for her counsel, or just her presence; that unique quality of quiet she had about her, the still waters where there were no demands to be anything but himself. And with all the faces the world knew, all the versions of him that flourished, through rumours and news and his own actions, he was never as certain about who he was as when she looked at him and _ saw_.

The sky lay heavily over the black water, the stars seeming moments away from falling off, to sink right through the still surface to the bottom. There was no horizon, and no line separating the two realms where they bled into one another.

A single lantern lit on deck announced their passing where they slipped between the shadows and the sea, the creak of the rigging and the water pushing against the hull yielding nothing else, not a murmur or a chuckle from the crew around him.

Yasopp peered over his shoulder. “Shite, it’s like a funeral. Which isn’t really encouraging, as far as omens go. Feels like the wrong time for a shanty though.”

Shanks didn’t smile. He might have, had it been any other time―might have kicked off the first note, already knowing which shanty they would have wanted. But he didn’t want to invoke any part of her here, with this pirate; wanted her so far away from him, even the association of her in Blackbeard’s presence was too close.

He caught Ben’s look. “Are you ready for this?”

Shanks hadn’t taken his eyes off the ship where it waited in the distance, the sails blacker than even the night sky. “If I’m not ready to take him on now, I’ll never be.” He let his breath go; he’d made this decision a long time ago. “And it has to be me.”

Neither Ben nor Yasopp protested that. Not because they agreed, but because like Shanks, they recognised the necessity; that the World Government would fail to act before it was too late. The years that had passed since Rocks’ annihilation had made them complacent, forgetting that it hadn’t been that long, and that Xebec’s legacy was far from eradicated. Shanks had, in a futile venture he realised now, tried to warn them.

He needed to do this; to pull this evil up at the root before it could grow any bigger. Captain Roger had done the same; had understood the necessity of doing it.

He looked out across the water. Their approach had been noted; the silent challenge accepted. And one Emperor seeking out another was cause for more than mild concern, and the navy usually kept abreast of any attempted communication between them. Shanks didn’t know if they were getting sloppy or if they were simply hoping a confrontation between them would absolve them of any kind of responsibility.

A different man might not have cared―might have left them to suffer the folly of their own reckless ignorance, but Shanks knew it wasn’t just about the World Government’s inability, or downright unwillingness, to act. They could afford to wait in Mariejois, and New Marineford; it was the rest of the world who’d bear the brunt of Blackbeard’s hunger for power, the islands under Shanks’ protection being only among the few.

He thought of Makino and their son, safe in East Blue, but _ safe _ wasn’t a guarantee, was only a state that existed until it changed. Shanks wouldn’t gamble their lives on the hope that the World Government would change their minds and heed his warning after all. And if they didn’t do it, there weren’t many left with the means to stop him.

_ It falls to us, _Shanks had said, the council of his most trusted gathered around the desk in his quarters, all but one, but he was glad now that she hadn’t come with him. Shanks didn’t know if he could have made this decision had Makino been aboard, and their son.

_ Big Mom and Kaidou will seek to strike an alliance, _ he’d continued, considering the map before him, and the pieces laid out, like on a game board. His gaze had landed on the smallest ship, with her lion figurehead. _ The only challenger left will be Luffy. _

He’d met their eyes across the desk: Ben’s considering the game pieces, and Lucky’s fixed on the map of East Blue, peeking out from underneath. Yasopp’s had been the hardest to look at, pinned on his with a different kind of understanding, as Shanks had said, evenly,

_ We can’t place this burden on them. _

It had been an unanimous decision, but then they all recognised the position they were in. And Luffy was strong, had proved himself as such, but Shanks wouldn’t let him near Blackbeard any more than he would his own son.

They were close now, having drawn up next to the main ship, and Shanks wasn’t surprised to see Blackbeard already waiting, standing on the edge of one of the giant logs attached to the side of his vessel. Several lanterns had been lit on deck, creating a dramatic backdrop; a stage lit for a performance. Like them, they hadn’t been hiding.

He’d changed since they’d last seen each other, his beard longer, parted in an elaborate style, and the heavy greatcoat slung over his shoulders announcing his new position almost gleefully, the gold-trimmed hem shifting where he’d planted his hands on his hips, his fingers gleaming with jewelled rings, like the braids in his hair. Only his grin shone brighter, and when he raised his voice it reached across the water, loud and clear,

“Here to make history, Shanks?”

He spread his arms wide, the theatrical demonstration followed by a series of whooping shouts from the crew on deck, before his grin hardened, although it didn’t slip from his face as Blackbeard asked, with an undercurrent of dark amusement, “Or to erase me from it?”

Shanks’ reply was to draw Gryphon from its sheath. The kerchief he’d used to keep there was gone, but he felt the assuring weight of the chain around his neck, holding his wedding ring.

“Oh,” Teach chuckled, his voice that dark, guttural thing, although it seemed tinged with genuine thrill. “You’ve got serious face! Nice. The scars really add to it. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Is he going to monologue?” Yasopp muttered. “Should I use the opportunity to clean my rifle?”

“Might not be the worst idea,” Ben spoke around his cigarette. “We could be here awhile.”

“If we are, I’m gonna go get a snack,” Lucky supplied.

Blackbeard’s grin slipped, his lip curling back from his teeth. “Fine,” he said, the word pulled taut with his sneer. “If you’re not in the mood to trade banter, let’s get down to business.” His next grin was different, and with a glance at his crew that had them all erupting into roaring approval, he laughed, “Let’s make this a battle so memorable, there’ll be no erasing it from the records. We’ll go down in history together, Red-Hair!”

He threw his head back, his laughter booming across the water, seeming spurred by the heckling from his crew. Stomping their feet, an uneven but thundering rhythm, they beat their weapons to the railing, their voices raised in a wordless chant that grew louder and louder, until the whole sea seemed to be churning with it.

Yasopp tightened his grip on his rifle. “This is it. We’re either making it out alive, or they are.” A chagrined smile fleeted over his mouth. “Wish I’d gotten to see my boy first.”

Shanks said nothing, but the regret he felt was the same; that he hadn’t made it back to her one last time.

Yasopp looked at him, that same understanding that Shanks found in all their gazes gleaming in his eyes as he grinned and said, “Guess we’ll just have to win. Give us the odds, Ben?”

“We’ve had worse,” Ben said, his smile hard. Shanks watched as he tossed his cigarette over the side, before meeting his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to say that _ now?_” Shanks asked him, and this time Ben’s smile widened, startled.

“Just stay alive. I promised your wife I’d bring you back.”

Smiling, Shanks shook his head, but the mention of her helped anchor his fleeting uncertainties. “Wasn’t enough for me to promise her, huh? The faith that girl has in me.” But his smile was as tender as the knowledge that there were none on this sea who had as much faith in him as she did.

Across the water, Blackbeard was watching them, his grin having only grown wider as his crew’s chanting grew louder. “Come on, Shanks,” he called over the din. “What are you waiting for, an in―”

He hadn’t finished speaking before his haki lashed out, the shockwave so great it shoved against the side of Blackbeard’s ship, enough to push it back across the water as the log cracked in half. And the demonstration was unnecessary, but it felt worth it just to see the grin on Teach’s face faltering as he cursed and scrambled to stay on his feet.

And this time, it was his crew answering with a_ roar_, the sound so deafening it drowned out even the heaving sea, as Shanks met Blackbeard’s gaze calmly.

This would change things. He knew this with unshakeable certainty, even as he couldn’t yet see what the outcome would be, or how the future would shift around this moment; knew only that it would.

He wondered if Captain Roger had felt the same.

There was no question if it was worth it. They’d already made their choice, long before they’d left Fuschia for the last time. But for Shanks it had been even longer, ever since the day he’d returned home from a changing sea to his new wife and found her belly round with a quickening life, and had known deep in his gut that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give to keep them safe.

―

He thought of her when the dark pulled him in; remembered that quiet morning waking up with her, the touch of her fingers to his cheek and her laughter soft and drowsy. And her voice, gentle but firm, unlike the words she’d spoken, which had seemed to something beyond them both, as though she could compel it simply by asking.

_ Come home when this is over. _

―

“You won’t kill him?”

Lafitte’s question held only mild surprise, but then he’d known him long enough not to think he had him entirely figured out.

“You know, I always thought I would,” Blackbeard said. He felt curiously put-upon. “But now that we’re here, it just feels anticlimactic? I was hoping it would feel more…I don’t know, _ gratifying. _ Or at the very least that there’d be more pzazz. Like what do I even do now, just slit his throat behind the scenes?”

“An off-stage death does feel out of character for someone like Red-Hair,” Lafitte agreed.

“Right?”

He mulled over the situation, looking out over the sea where it had settled, his eye catching on a piece of driftwood; half of a splintered mast. A little ways further off bobbed the broken neck of a dragon figurehead. Although what held his attention was the gaping crater a few feet away.

Red-Hair’s haki had cut the sea in half. Teach didn’t think he would have believed it if he wasn’t looking at it with his own two eyes. And even long after he’d done it, the crater remained, two walls of water kept apart as though by magnets, and baring the rocky seabed far below. The chasm was so wide it could have fit a country. He couldn’t even see over to the other side.

“A bit overkill?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m the one saying that.”

Lafitte hummed, his gloved hands laced over the crow’s head of his cane. “You did always say he had a penchant for dramatics. But I will concede that it is…a bit much.”

“Damn impressive, though,” Teach said, peering over the side. He couldn’t see the bottom, and didn’t want his ship getting too close, in case the walls gave and sucked them all in. But not even a trickle of water had slipped free, as though Red-Hair had imbued so much haki into it the lingering traces was keeping the sea frozen in place.

Red-Hair’s crew had been left on the other side when he’d made the cut, but it was too far for Teach to see if his ship had survived the shockwave, or how far they’d been thrown. He would have gone after them to finish the job if it hadn’t been for the fucking crater in his way. But then that had no doubt been Red-Hair’s intention when he’d separated them.

“Sacrificed himself to save his men,” he mused with a snort. “Always could count on Red-Hair to be a damn moralistic bastard.”

“They are not likely to pose a problem,” Lafitte said. “Their captain has been defeated. Cut off the head and so forth. Whitebeard proved this theory sufficiently.”

“You say that, but I had to cut off a fuckload of heads to lay that hydra to rest,” Teach muttered.

Lafitte shrugged his bony shoulders. “Whitebeard had numbers. It made his men overconfident. Red-Hair’s men are more strategically inclined, his first mate in particular. If Ben Beckman is leading them, they would not seek another confrontation without their captain. Unless they opt for suicide.” He paused, then mused with a sidelong glance at Teach, “Or a rescue, if they discover you haven’t killed him. They’ll have his vivre card.”

Teach grimaced. He had of course thought about that. “I probably should just finish him off. But I should’a done it while we were still fighting! Now it just feels half-assed, like I forgot to do it the first time.” He muttered, “Don’t even know why the hell I kept him alive to begin with. I had him right there!”

“You are not short-sighted,” Lafitte pointed out. “Keeping him alive keeps your options open.”

“Yeah, but what options? I can’t exactly hold him for ransom, his territory’s mine now.”

“What were you hoping for when you defeated him? You must have considered it. It’s been almost twenty years.”

He considered this for a moment. It had for so long seemed like an inevitability, he’d forgotten why he’d wanted it so much. “I don’t know,” Teach said at length. “To knock him off his moral high horse? But it’s not like killing him would achieve that. He’d just be dead. You can’t one-up someone who’s not there to see you do it. The hell’s the enjoyment in that?”

“Humiliation, then?”

“Nah. Doesn’t take himself seriously enough to be humiliated. It’s been a pain in my ass for years, the way shit just keeps rolling off him like he’s immune to it. Ever since we were kids he’s walked around acting like he doesn’t care what people think, but if you ask me it’s just because he’s so used to being respected. People are always falling over themselves to remind him, too.”

Then he blinked, an epiphany hitting him between breaths.

“He’s used to being respected,” Teach repeated, looking at Lafitte, whose brows quirked, inquiring. “He got Sengoku to call off a fucking war just by showing up. They listen to him, like he’s not a pirate like the rest of us. Like he’s _ better _ somehow.” Angry now, he spat, “I want him to know what it feels like to be treated like one. When that goddamn nobility won’t be worth _ shit_.”

He looked out over the crater. He wondered how long it would remain that way, or if Red-Hair had somehow left a permanent mark. He could, if nothing else, appreciate the irony, although getting around it would be a pain in the ass.

“Sengoku is not Fleet Admiral anymore,” Lafitte mused then, and Teach’s gaze shot to him, only to find his brows lifting imperceptibly.

“He’s got a wife.” Teach said. His voice had a new pitch. “Red-Hair.”

“Ah yes,” Lafitte agreed. “The barmaid.”

Teach grinned. “Would be a damn shame to make her a widow without a warning.”

“Indeed.” Curious, Lafitte tipped the brim of his hat, his eyes seeking his. “What are you thinking?”

His grin stretched wider. And maybe it would have been more gratifying to see the look on Red-Hair’s face, but keeping him trapped between dimensions until they reached New Marineford was probably the wisest course of action.

Looking up at his ship, or what remained of it, he noted the dismal sight where it canted, and the warning groans shuddering through the broken timbers. Red-Hair had done one hell of a number on it; the only part that wasn't underwater was the remaining log. She wouldn't hold much longer, but they had others they could use until he got it fixed, although it would take a sizeable chunk out of his coffers.

“I’m thinking a four billion berri payout could come in handy.”

―

It was one of those nights she felt in her bones, an exhaustion that shaped her movements, drew the lines of her body taut and aching, like the hours of the day had slowly but surely collected in the strait between her shoulder blades, in the gentle crevasse of her lower back, each one heavier than the last.

Her son was asleep, and she took her time with her chores, moving sluggishly between the tables, collecting glasses and plates. Usually fleet-footed, a graceful wave where she swept through the room, her chores finished before she could stop and think about them, tonight when she finished one there was yet more that needed her attention: more dirty glasses, a discarded knife on the floor, the dishes in the sink, and her books to keep; someone’s tab that hadn’t been paid, again, and on it went.

Makino glanced at the Den Den Mushi. And the urge always seized her in moments like this, to call him, wanting to share her small burdens, which weren’t as heavy as his, but he’d never made her feel as though there was a difference; had only ever been her partner, and it was getting harder and harder now, even after years of running her business alone, to get comfortable with his absence. As though every time he left her, she got a little more reluctant to let him go.

She missed him, the way his laughter had of making her shoulders relax, and the ease he had of making her forget that she was tired, or scared. And it had just been a long day, nothing more serious than that, but the longing was there nonetheless. The most normal days were the hardest ones; the ones she wished she could have spent with him.

She allowed her hand to hover over the receiver for a moment, before she curled her fingers into her palm and went to wipe down the tables. Better to be safe than sorry.

It took a bit more cleaning before she was satisfied, and by the time she made it upstairs, bone-tired and with her eyes heavy-lidded, Makino thought she could have fallen asleep on the landing.

Checking in on Ace, she found him sound asleep, his little mouth parted and his hair standing up. And it always helped, after a long day where she barely recognised herself, to be reminded of the things that mattered more than whether her inventory was done, or that she’d double-checked next month’s shipment. Watching her son sleeping, safe and protected, those things ceased to matter altogether.

Smoothing down the wilder tufts of his hair tenderly, Makino kissed his head. “Sweet dreams, little captain.” And nudging the mobile above his crib to send the little ships sailing, she quietly retreated to her own bedroom.

The silence greeted her already on her way through the door, seeming to hang over the room, sagging between the shelves and gathering in the corners, the nooks and creases of the peace. And it had been her bedroom most of her life, but it felt different now, the bed too big, the tidiness too _ tidy, _too much of her and not enough of him, no discarded sandals or neglected reading glasses, and the more intimate clutter that belonged to a marriage of two people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other―his shirt on the floor, and her underthings discarded wherever it pleased him after he’d taken them off her. A coy bit of hempen rope, peeking out from behind a pillow.

Now everything was in its rightful place, everything folded and rolled up and tucked away, as though the neat order of things could somehow mask that a vital piece was missing.

She’d just unlaced her boots, and in what could only be described as a moment of reckless impulsivity, Makino kicked them across the room. One landed beside the bed, the other by her dresser, and pleased with the small rebellion, she dropped her apron over the back of the chair by her vanity.

Then she huffed, her shoulders slumping as she sighed, “Oh, fearsome pirate. What big waves you’re making.”

The silence didn’t answer, which was probably a good thing because she doubted it would have let her ridiculousness slide.

But she could imagine what he would have said. If she closed her eyes, she almost found herself waiting for it, the big frame of his body behind her, and the rumble of his voice against her neck. _ I’m up for making some waves if you are. _

Her sigh left her, too longing to be self-deprecating this time, as she began to unlace her bodice, her fingers catching on the thin gold threads, exhaustion having left them awkward and fumbling. Any other night, she might have let that fantasy run away with her, seeking release after a long day, and an orgasm would certainly help, only it took time on her own, and she was ready to nod off where she stood.

Looking out the window found the sea greying, although it would be a few more hours until sunrise. She wondered what Shanks was doing now; if he was sleeping, or if they were enjoying themselves, as his crew was known to do.

She wondered if he was thinking about her. And it helped imagining it, making it a little easier to endure going to sleep in a big, cold bed.

Not for the first time did she imagine what it would have been like, if she’d gone with him; if she would have liked being at sea, or if she would have missed her quiet, uneventful life with her everyday routines. If she could have been a pirate, at least in more than just name.

Makino thought she might have once, but didn’t know if that girl had just grown up or more afraid, wary of adventure, and of stepping out of her comfort zone. It was safe here. What a life at sea with Shanks had promised her wouldn’t have been.

But she would have been with him, and with her crew, and maybe she could have been brave for that. Missing him now, Makino thought she would.

The bed beckoned invitingly, even as she made a point of not looking too closely at it, the absence of him marked, like the fact that she’d taken to sleeping on just one side. And pulling open the drawer of her nightstand, she was about to do as she did every night when she paused, her nose wrinkling at the smell that hit her, like something had burned.

Understanding dawned half a second later, then panic, and ripping open the drawer, she fumbled the book, falling open like a cracked rib at the place she’d bookmarked it.

Shanks’ vivre card fell out, but her relief was short-lived, and her hand froze as she considered where it lay, half the size of what it should be. It had burned through the pages in the book, creating a black, charred hole right through the heart of it.

“No,” she murmured, her voice small where it clawed itself from her throat, confusion making it a question more than the refusal she wanted.

Dropping the book, she scrambled for the Den Den Mushi she kept on her nightstand, not caring in that moment that it wasn’t safe to call him, knowing only that she needed to hear his voice; to have him tell her that he was fine, that it wasn’t as serious as the vivre card made it look, and that he was sorry for making her worry over nothing.

But just as she was about to reach for the receiver, there was a _ thunk _ on the porch below; the sound of the newspaper arriving, a familiar part of her mornings, enmeshed so thoroughly in her routines she could almost count down the seconds until she heard the sound, and for a heart-stopping moment, the small detail, irreconcilable with the late hour, kept her from doing anything.

Through her open window, she heard the sound of doors opening in the street below, as porch-lights and lanterns were lit, and grumbling voices inquired at the late hour, and why the paper would be arriving now.

The Den Den Mushi forgotten, she was already running, forgetting her boots, and that she was half-dressed, nearly tripping over her feet as she hurtled down the corridor and the stairs, the charred vivre card crumbled in her fist, willing it to be an unconnected incident, even as she knew, shoving through the bat-wing doors and onto the porch, that it couldn’t be a coincidence.

They all looked up as she came running out, their expressions grave, and all of them looking like they’d been dragged straight from their beds, gathered around Woop Slap where he stood in his dressing robe and without his glasses, holding the open newspaper.

Their feelings hit her harder than the looks on their faces―grief, and worse still, _ sympathy_, which clogged her throat like it meant to choke her, her senses overpowered, nearly making her stagger back.

Her elusive denial found her now, shoving back against that terrible understanding in their eyes as Makino shook her head fiercely. “_No_,” she spat, as though that would make it true; as though her words were witchcraft, and her denial strong enough to undo whatever had been done; to pull apart the threads of fate and start over.

Her gaze dropped to the newspaper on her porch, neatly rolled up, so fresh off the press she wondered if the ink had even finished drying yet.

“Makino,” Woop Slap said, and she didn’t know if he was warning or begging her, but she didn’t care, picking it up and loosening the rubber tie, her hands shaking as she unfolded it.

The lamp hanging under the awning burned brightly enough to let her see, the fresh ink standing out against the thin paper, and her gaze was drawn first to his face―the photograph of him where it took up almost the whole front page. It was the same they used for his wanted poster, the one that showed the Emperor, noble and grave, a serious look deepening his eyes under his high brow, and his usually-smiling mouth downturned at the corners. Makino remembered joking once that he looked like he’d posed for the camera, to which Shanks had only laughed, although she’d been quick to point out that he hadn’t denied the claim.

Beneath it was a smaller photo of Blackbeard, wearing a wide grin, but she could barely read the caption, let alone the article, her eyes glued to the headline; the breaking news crashing in over her without forgiveness, a tidal wave across her quiet shores, ripping her feet out from underneath her with seven words:

_ Emperor Red-Haired Shanks to Be Executed. _

―

The chains were a bit excessive.

The thought was slow in clawing through the haze of pain that clouded his mind, and opening his eyes found the view unchanged from when he’d drifted off. Blackened stone slabs encased the massive room, white moss growing in the ass-cracks of the stones. Torches had been lit along the chamber walls, but there was nothing to see but the unyielding faces in the stone, peering back at him humourlessly.

The Pangaea Castle dungeons lived up to every known stereotype. Carved out of the bedrock of the Red Line, they were a maze of narrow corridors and square prison cells, the kind that would give anyone claustrophobia before they even began the torture; an entirely unsurprising pastime of the heavenly masters who only rarely graced the premises with their own presence. It was hard to get the stench of human suffering out of white silk, after all.

But the masonry was no less impressive than the white city where it squatted atop it, the prim lady Mariejois with her green copper spires whose walls were built to withstand a siege, and whose dungeons were built to keep those who’d dare attempt one. Miles of impregnable stone, but Shanks hadn’t realised just how impervious they’d built it before he’d attempted mapping out the place, and even his observation couldn’t penetrate the whole dungeon.

He tried to stretch, a kink in his shoulder begging relief, but there was no moving, the chains enveloping him only allowing him to move his head a fraction up and sideways. The weight of them alone took all his strength just to hold up. Two had been pinioned to the ceiling and two to the walls, one wrapped around his arm, holding it elevated and pulling it until his muscles strained, while the other extended from his left shoulder, keeping him locked in place where he knelt at the centre of the massive chamber.

The sound of wailing hinges echoed in the distance, followed by a heavy _ clang _ that reverberated through the stone. He felt it through his knees, resonating deep within him, and tried to track the sound, reaching out as far as he could in an attempt to pinpoint the source, but his mind was muddled, and he was tired. All he could say for certain was that it had come from somewhere ahead.

Footsteps approached; the even-legged gait of someone who wasn’t in a hurry, and Shanks didn’t need to look up to know who they belonged to. He recognised the presence―the air of grave superiority and impenetrable judgement, as immovable as the stone walls of the oubliette.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

The voice reached towards him, coarsened with a slight smoker’s rasp but loud enough to fill the great chamber, even as he didn’t make a point of raising it, and lifting his eyes found the Fleet Admiral on the other side of the iron bars that took up one of the chamber’s four walls. There was no visible door that Shanks could see, as though it had simply been welded shut, although if removed, the entrance could have fit a ship. The cell itself could have fit a small army.

Akainu considered him coolly. He had his hands in the pockets of his suit, and his white coat stood out starkly against the charred stone. “The last pirate they held here was Kaidou.”

His gaze flicked down, considering him where he kneeled, draped in chains; the heavy iron shackles the mockery of a king’s regalia. Shanks didn’t doubt that the imagery was intentional.

“Someone suggested we were being a bit overcautious, putting you in here,” Akainu continued, his expression a flat stone slab, although Shanks thought he saw his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I told them we weren’t being cautious enough.”

He could feel a speech coming, but then Shanks doubted he’d sought him out just to stare at him. He resisted the glib urge to ask if he could use the bathroom before he got going.

Akainu didn’t start talking right away, as though aware of what he was thinking, but compared to most in his position, he wasn’t so easily ruffled by his cheek. He was too serious for that, one of the reasons Shanks had known never to underestimate him. Fools got worked up over small slights, and Akainu was no fool.

“You make yourself liked, Red-Hair,” he began then. The comment might have sounded musing from someone else; from him, it sounded like a criminal charge. “People listen when you speak. Your words carry weight, for all that they are the words of a pirate. They call you honourable, and intelligent. You have influence, and if not exactly allies, there are people on our side who’ll vouch for you. I doubt it will come as a surprise that there have been several demands for a reduced sentence, arguing the necessity of your continued presence in the New World. That without you, the others will roam unchecked. Kaidou and Big Mom in particular are a concern.”

Shanks said nothing; it wasn’t really a question, anyway. And Akainu only allowed the statement to sit for a beat, before he asked, his voice this time holding a different pitch, “I ask myself if they are truly wary of the balance toppling, or if you have simply wrapped them so thoroughly around your little finger, you’ll have them all crying for a pardon before we’ve marched you to the execution platform.”

He allowed his disdain to be heard, the hoarse rasp of his voice dripping with it. And he might not have committed the gravest crimes on this sea, but Shanks knew that for Akainu, he was a greater threat than Kaidou and Big Mom, and even Teach. He hadn’t forgotten Marineford.

“It will take some convincing for the majority to vote in favour of executing you,” Akainu continued, a hard note entering his voice this time, which might have been glee, had he been a different kind of man. “But you’ll remember that I can be convincing, too.”

Shanks didn’t deny it. And it wasn’t like him, staying quiet, but part of him was hoping his silence would rattle him enough to let slip some of the things he needed to know, like what had happened to his crew, and if they’d been caught or if they’d escaped Blackbeard like he’d hoped, or if…

Clenching his eyes shut, he forced his thoughts onto a different track. He needed to keep his head cool, to make a plan and figure out how to get out of this, and preferably before they marched him to his execution platform. If he could just regain some of his strength, he could do something about the chains, and if he could get a hold of one of the guards, he might be able to talk his way out. Or just bring the whole castle down, if he could risk it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Akainu continued, although Shanks sincerely doubted he did, but as far as power-strutting monologues went, that one was a classic. “Give it a few days, maybe even less, and you’ll find a way out. Charm the guards, or simply tear down the whole castle. You’re certainly capable. I am the last who will contest that.”

Okay, so maybe he had him pegged exactly right. Shanks almost told him as much, but allowed his glib smile to do the talking. He wasn’t looking at the Fleet Admiral now, instead making a show of considering a much more interesting bloodstain on the stone in front of him.

“When he handed you over, Blackbeard was gracious enough to provide me with a piece of information,” Akainu said, as Shanks wondered how much blood had gone into making that stain. It looked like a whole body’s worth.

“Your wife in East Blue.”

The smile slipped from his face, and despite himself, his head shot up, rattling the chains where they strained against the movement.

Something glinted in Akainu’s eyes. Triumph, although it was a harder thing than Teach would have boasted in his shoes.

He realised then that the chain holding his wedding ring was missing.

“Makino, was it? She’s a barmaid. Party’s Bar, in Fuschia Port on Dawn Island. She’s thirty-one. No criminal record, and a missing birth certificate, although given that she was raised by a single mother, that’s no surprise. Bastards rarely go in the records. You have a son with her. He's not even a year old.”

Fear filled him, greater than any he’d ever felt, looking through the iron bars and feeling for the first time since he’d woken up in chains exactly what position he was in.

“We have eyes on her,” Akainu said, meeting his gaze calmly through the bars. “Men awaiting my orders.”

The chains rattling loudly alerted him to the fact that he’d moved, lurching against them where they pinned him down, but there was no yanking them from the stone, even with the fury that had replaced his earlier calm; that swelled up within him now, so forceful he thought he could have ripped the chains like ribbons.

“You won’t touch her,” Shanks snarled.

Akainu didn’t flinch. “Cooperate, and I will make sure she remains untouched.”

The implication in the slight emphasis he put on the last word made him more furious than anything. Nothing Sakazuki would ever threaten explicitly; he had too much honour for that. But the callous suggestion rang with a greater threat―the thought of what might happen to her in their custody, that she wasn’t protected simply by virtue of her own innocence. And that was if they even bothered arresting her, and didn’t just execute her on the spot.

“They never did get her,” Akainu said then, looking down at him through the bars. “Roger’s woman.”

Shanks watched as he held his gaze, seeing the fury in it, and likely, the helplessness, before he turned to leave, his footsteps just as unhurried as before, and his voice carried back, echoing hollowly between the stone―

“Resist, and I will make sure we’re not as careless this time around.”

―

The morning had yet to deepen, the pale blue sky like a silk veil where it hung over the castle grounds as he emerged, and everything painted in softer hues, the white marble walkways and the roses in the gardens where they climbed the battlements.

He plucked one in passing, delicate and pink like a blushing girl, before he paused, wondering dryly if it counted as a criminal offence, although he spared the thought only mild resentment before pinning it to his buttonhole. They had plenty of roses.

Leaving the castle grounds, he found the two recruits who’d come with him waiting, one of them making an embarrassing demonstration of never having visited Mariejois, from his poorly concealed gawking. His partner showed little of the same awe, her expression blank where she’d resolutely pinned her gaze on one of the gargoyles peering down from the parapets, but catching his approach, they both straightened their postures, and greeted him in unison.

“Fleet Admiral!”

Sakazuki only spared them half a glance, and didn’t stop walking. He never overstayed his visits, preferring to keep them as brief as possible. He looked forward to being back in his office and away from the corrupted smell of this place. At least the dungeons had been honest about it; the city pretended otherwise, but even the smell of the roses couldn’t mask the stench.

They were preparing for a celebration. He noted the decorations being put up as he passed, garlands and bunting, and special offers in the taverns, no doubt at the news of Red-Hair’s capture. On top of the Reverie, the residents of Mariejois would have a lot to celebrate in the coming week. Routines might be sloppier, their guard let down, as secure within their walls as they were in their divine right. They didn’t doubt their dungeon could hold an Emperor, but Sakazuki knew better than to underestimate Red-Hair, even with the threat of harm befalling his wife.

He might need more tangible incentive.

“Bring Red-Hair’s wife into custody,” he said, and heard as they answered, the order punctuated with a salute as the castle gates swung open.

“We might have a use for her.”

―

She hadn’t slept a wink.

Ghostlike, she haunted the shadows of her bar, the sun where it rose over the horizon highlighting the hollow caves of her eyes, the cracks in her chapped lips. She felt bruised, her bones aching like they were growing too big for her skin, her flesh pulled taut over her delicate joints, like a part of her was trapped within, angry and grieving, and would break her ribs to get free. Her own shadow stood out against the floorboards, already wearing a widow’s black, her lines pronounced; thin and severe where they curved, almost painfully.

Her breakfast was a bottle of whiskey, although she’d only mustered a single glass, having thrown the second back up. The taste of vomit still filled her mouth; it felt like the only thing anchoring her to the world; that made it seem real, and that she was still living.

_ “They’re holding him in Mariejois.” _

Garp’s voice was loud within the cavern of her empty bar, emitting from the Den Den Mushi where it sat next to the whiskey bottle. And she wouldn’t have dared make this call to anyone else, but Garp had a white one. They wouldn’t be monitoring this.

But even if they had been, Makino didn’t know if she could have been bothered to care.

_ “After the breach in Impel Down, they decided to take greater security measures this time around.” _

He didn’t mention Ace by name, but it was there in the weight of his voice, the heavy beats of his syllables and the bite to his inflections. And she hadn’t spoken a single word, but she hadn’t needed to for him to know why she’d called.

It still felt unreal that he should be saying it―that they should have him, as though someone like Shanks could be locked up anywhere.

“Is he―”

She didn’t realise she’d spoken until she heard her own voice; the thin thread where it pulled from her throat, the words distorted by the rasp of her vocal chords, Makino barely heard what she’d meant to ask.

Garp was quiet for a beat. It felt too long, Makino thought, before he eventually said, _ “I don’t know. He’s not dead, but they’ll have taken measures to keep him from doing anything. Sea stone would have done the trick if he’d been a devil fruit user, but they’ve got other means of ensuring he stays put.” _

She didn’t ask what kind of means could contain someone as strong as Shanks; couldn’t bear hearing what they’d done to him.

And she almost couldn’t bear asking about this, either, but, “What about the others?”

She couldn’t make herself ask. It had kept her company all night, as she’d called and called but received no answer. Makino had lost count of how many attempts she’d made to reach them, barely having let the line go dead before trying again, and again, as if she was stubborn enough, she’d get through.

_ “Haven’t heard from them,” _ Garp said, confirming what she already suspected, and she closed her eyes, and bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, and the tired sob from escaping her. _ “Don’t know if they survived, or if Blackbeard―” _

He stopped, likely seeing from the snail’s expression just what the words were doing to her, but Makino didn’t know if his silence was any better, only allowing more room for her imagination.

His voice was firm this time, an attempt at comfort, or as close to comfort a man like that could get, _ “Knowing Red-Hair’s crew, it would take more than Blackbeard’s force to take them all out. Odds are, they’ve regrouped somewhere to decide their next move. They’re damn loyal to Red-Hair. They won’t be sitting still.” _

Her palms cupped her brow, her breath shivering. She felt feverish. “How long?” she asked, hoarsely. “His execution. The paper didn’t say.”

Not knowing was worse, as though they could do it at any moment, and she couldn’t bear the thought that it could happen without her knowing, and she’d only discover it after the fact, even as that didn’t seem possible. Makino couldn’t conceive of him leaving this world without her feeling it somehow.

_ “The initial ruling was appealed,” _ Garp said, and she heard how her breath caught with her shock, but saw from the snail’s unforgiving expression that it hadn’t been offered as hope. _ “One of the Five Elders. It’s unprecedented, but then it’s Red-Hair. But Akainu won’t accept anything less than a public execution, not after Marineford. He’ll twist their arm until they yield.” _

Anger left her short of breath, her hands shaking where she’d laced her fingers together, so tightly it hurt, as Garp continued, _ “If they vote to execute him, they’ll probably wait until after the Reverie. Or make it part of the event.” _ He scoffed, and grumbled, _ “Wouldn’t put it past them to use the opportunity, while they’ve got all the nobles gathered.” _

Pain stabbed her chest at the thought―that there’d be people celebrating his execution, as though it was nothing more than a performance to delight the crowd, something to conclude the summit, to leave people’s spirits high.

She was twisting her wedding ring around her finger, her knuckle hurting from the pressure she was putting on it. Her thoughts churned, a ceaseless whirlpool, but she’d latched on to one thing. “So what you’re saying is there might be a few days before they set a date. If the others know, maybe they could―”

_ “Makino,” _ Garp said, with a tone he hadn’t used since she’d been a teenager, the one that suggested she was wilfully refusing to understand something, and which made her want to snap back. _ “You need to face the facts of what’s happening. This isn’t a rookie pirate made to face his crimes; this is one of the most wanted men in the world. Normal rules don’t apply here. Red-Hair’s crew knows that better than anyone.” _

“But they wouldn’t just let them execute hi―”

_ “Even if they’re alive, Red-Hair’s crew alone won’t be enough to challenge the World Government,” _ Garp cut her off. _ “That’s what they’ll be doing if they interfere―they’ll be laying siege to Mariejois. There’ll be another war. Do you understand?” _

The lash of his voice had left an imprint on the air, and her lip trembled where she tucked it between her teeth.

As though realising he’d lost his temper, Garp’s sigh was heavy, and his voice was more controlled this time when he said, _ “If we’re looking at another war, it’s one I want you far away from.” _

She’d been about to protest when his words stopped her, and she blinked, her breath hitching softly as an idea seized her, completely out of the blue. After a whole night spent feeling utterly helpless, it felt like she’d been thrown a lifeline.

_ “I’m sorry,” _ Garp said, as though reading her prolonged silence as something else. _“There ain’t nothing I can do. If I had a higher rank, maybe my opinion would be worth something, but Akainu’s got the reins on this. Not to mention, he doesn’t trust me for shit, so even if I did show interest in Red-Hair’s case, he’d never let me near him.” _

“What if I got him out?”

Her quiet query stilled the rising tide of his anger, and she watched as the Den Den Mushi’s eyes blinked, its expression visibly caught off guard. And before Garp could recover, Makino forged on, “They’ll be expecting them to try and save him, or to stop his execution. They’ll be prepared for a battle―a war, like you said. But they wouldn’t expect _ me_.”

The Den Den Mushi just stared at her, for a moment so shocked Makino thought Garp was beyond speech, before the snail’s eyes narrowed, and the expression that overtook its face now wasn’t shock at all but the opposite: as though in hearing what she was really saying, he’d found he wasn’t that surprised she’d suggest it.

Emboldened by that, when she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, only that she was prepared to do it, “They don’t know who I am. No one would look at me twice,” Makino continued. “And you mentioned you were going to the Reverie, to be an escort. If _ you _got me in―”

_ “Not happening,” _ Garp cut her off, the snap of his voice cleaving through hers. He sounded so furious he was out of breath, and before she could open her mouth, desperation and anger and grief making her forget that she wasn’t usually so bold, _ “And I know I speak for Red-Hair too when I say that it’s out of the goddamned question, Makino.” _

New anger surged within her, directed at him this time; fury that he would deny her this, when she’d never asked him for anything. “He is my _ husband_―”

_ “And he is a pirate!” _Garp roared, the crack of his voice like thunder, and so forceful Makino flinched back in her seat.

She heard him drawing a breath, as though to control himself. _ “This isn’t one of your romances,” _ Garp said, and Makino reared back, struck by that remark even more than his anger, and the hurt that seized her at his reaction―as though she was just a girl, without a firm foothold in reality, and the suggestion that she would be so childish with her husband’s life on the line.

Garp wasn’t leaving it at that. _ “Things don’t magically work out the way they do in your books. It’s not as easy as just swooping in to someone’s rescue. This is the Holy Land! The people who live there are untouchable. The castle has higher security than even Impel Down, and you can be damn sure they’ve learned from their mistakes. There’ll be more guards at Red-Hair’s execution than even Roger had at his.” _

Her hands shook where she clenched them in her lap, but she couldn’t summon her voice, even to refute what he was saying.

_ “I know you want to do something,” _ Garp continued, and this time there was understanding in his voice, although it wasn’t any kinder than his fury. _ “It’s hell being forced to sit and watch. But this is out of both our hands.” _

This time, her refusal dragged her voice out, “But if I could just―”

_ “Are you hearing what I’m saying?” _ Garp spat, and Makino heard that he didn’t just sound angry now; he sounded afraid. _ “Mariejois is the last place you should be! It’s a cesspit of the worst of humanity, and it won’t matter if they don’t look at you twice_―_the moment someone does, there’s no getting out. You’ll be lucky to be executed in the street, because the alternative is servitude to the Celestial Dragons, and believe me when I say there’s a reason the few who are caught trying to escape beg to be thrown in Impel Down.” _

It was the most she’d ever gotten out of Garp concerning Mariejois, in all her years of begging him for information, almost perversely curious about the goings-on in the fabled Holy Land. And she might have derived some pleasure from breaking his tight-lipped resolve so thoroughly, but the icy chill that filled her stomach kept her from feeling anything but fear, and anger.

That’s where they were keeping him―in a place where humanity had no foothold. The kindest man she knew, who gave more of himself for others than he ever got back; who laughed away his hurts and the slights made at his expense. Shanks, who’d never been held down by anything; who cherished freedom so fiercely. The thought of him there, shackled, made her so furious she wanted to scream. And Garp was expecting her to sit still with her hands in her lap, resigned and delicate like some feudal lord’s wilting wife whose life was forfeit with her husband’s? Was he honestly telling her there was nothing she could do, and that she would just have to sit and watch as they executed the man she loved, hoping that someone would intervene in time?

She didn’t know what he’d read into her silence this time, but Garp’s voice was devoid of compassion when he told her, with the blunt dismissal of a final judgement, _ “I’m not taking you to Mariejois, Makino. End of discussion.” _

Makino said nothing, not to challenge the decision or anything else, merely held the Den Den Mushi’s gaze, wondering what Garp saw on the other end.

She thought of Ace, as she had often during the long night that had passed, restlessly prowling the floor of her bar, her heart breaking from her own helplessness. And that whole, terrible war hadn’t saved him in the end, but they had _ tried_. His captain hadn’t abandoned him, even knowing what it would mean for him to challenge the World Government. Luffy hadn’t been sitting idly by, hoping they’d be successful in stopping his brother’s execution. That he’d been just one person hadn’t stopped him from breaking into the worst prison in the world, the bravest boy she knew, who’d taught her more than Makino had ever taught him.

The sun was up, filling every corner of her bar, but glancing at her shadow didn’t find its back bent under the weight of her grief. She sat upright in her seat now, her chin tipped and her shoulder blades pushed back, staring down the Den Den Mushi across the table.

“I guess that’s it, then,” Makino said quietly, the level weight of her voice catching even her by surprise. And her expression was anything but calm, and she knew the snail revealed it, but didn’t care what Garp thought. He would know what she felt, but that would be all he knew. “You’ve made up your mind.”

And in a move that was entirely unlike her, she hung up before Garp could say another word, pushing back her chair as she rose from her seat, taking her unfinished drink where it sat on the table and tossing it back, before calmly putting it down, bottoms up, and delicately wiped the corners of her mouth.

Then with a breath, went to open her bar.

―

The day went by faster than the previous night, a steady stream of customers to keep her on her feet, more than she usually saw in a week, as though the whole village had come by in hopes of distracting her. They’d kept her busy, and Makino appreciated their effort more than their sympathy; preferred the flurry of orders, and the hands minding her son, their chatter keeping her thoughts from drifting to Shanks with every breath, even as they never strayed too far.

Dadan’s eyes were the only ones that betrayed confusion at her behaviour; as though she might have expected her to close the bar for the day, or at least give herself some time to grieve. And if it hadn’t been for the call with Garp, Makino thought she would have.

But something had changed in her. She wasn’t just sitting idly waiting for news, or for someone else to do something.

“Hope this’ll do.”

Dadan’s voice was punctuated by a tug at the duvet, adjusting it. The futon had been pulled out, freshly laundered sheets and one of Dadan’s best pillows prepared for her, the way they always did whenever she stayed the night.

Straw covered the rough planks, and an old, thickly-woven rug had been pinned to the slats in the rafters. An oil lamp had been placed next to the mattress, the only source of light in the loft. In the main room below, a fire crackled in the hearth, the warm glow reaching even to the darkest corners of the cabin, but not further. The forest outside would be pitch black; it had already been dark when she’d arrived.

“Try to get some sleep,” Dadan said. In the flickering light, the lines of her face stood out severely, deepening her frown. She didn’t look like she’d been sleeping any better than Makino had, but then the news of the execution had hit close to home for everyone in her family. “Ain’t nothing we can do for Red-Hair, but he wouldn’t want you killing yourself over this.”

Even gruffly spoken, it wasn’t said without kindness, but Makino only nodded, not trusting her voice to talk about him, or what he would want for her. In that moment, she didn’t really care.

_ I would have you safe_, he’d told her. She remembered standing on the docks when they’d said goodbye. She’d been worried that morning, but he’d gotten her to laugh. It felt like a cruel memory now.

She watched as Dadan looked into the crib where Ace lay on his back, his arms and legs spread, sound asleep. It had belonged to his namesake; Dadan had chopped down the tree herself, and whittled and polished the wood. It was extremely practical, nothing more or less than was absolutely necessary, even as the smile on her face now suggested something else.

“Been a while since I’ve had a baby under my roof,” she said, with a curiously tender scoff. She smoothed her fingers over the banister, before reaching down to adjust a tiny sock. Her voice was rough when she murmured, “Gotta say, I’ve missed it.”

Makino tucked her lips together, but stubbornly refused the tears that pressed against her eyes, looking at her baby sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening around him, as it should be. He was still so new, and had changed so much just in the few months since Shanks had left. If he didn’t come back, what would their son remember of him?

But it wasn’t despair that found her at the thought. Rather the opposite.

“Dadan,” she said, and when she turned to look at her, Makino added, with gentle emphasis, “Thank you. For letting us stay here.”

Dadan looked at her. And in that moment Makino wondered if she knew what she was planning. Few would believe her capable, would even conceive it as a possibility, but Dadan…

“Been a long day,” Dadan said gruffly. Her expression revealed none of her thoughts. “I’ll be out before my head hits the pillow.” She paused, then said, “The lantern in the cellar’s a bit more reliable.” Meeting her eyes, she told Makino meaningfully, “If you need a better light.”

Makino swallowed. It was hard to manage past the lump in her throat, and her voice was thick when she said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dadan nodded, and was about to climb down the ladder when she stopped. And Makino thought she would say something, before she only firmed her lips, and holding her gaze, very deliberately said nothing.

Then she dropped down from the ladder, leaving her in the loft with Ace. Makino heard her talking to Dogra and Magra, their voices pitched low, as though not to carry further, and hearing Shanks’ name mentioned, she turned her attention away, almost stubbornly.

Watching her son sleeping, she waited until the fire had burned to embers in the hearth, and the rest of the cabin was asleep. Dadan’s snores were the loudest, rattling the shutters, but there was security in the sound, masking her quiet footsteps as she made to pack the duffle she’d brought, leaving out the things she wouldn’t be needing, diapers and pacifiers and baby clothes, which she folded neatly and left atop the futon.

The flintlock pistol Yasopp had given her she tucked into the bottom of the duffle, under her change of clothes, and Shanks’ vivre card she slipped beneath her bodice, into the hollow between her breasts. Then she laced up her boots and braided back her hair, taking care to be quiet, and keeping the cabin always in her mind; that strange awareness she had, which let her know they were all sound asleep. Shanks had explained it to her once, the ability called observation, and that she’d only recently started thinking of as something other than a better than usual people-sense. And like the pistol, it wasn’t much to take with her, but it was more than going into hell barehanded.

She would have to get better, she knew. Shanks had shown her some things, mostly to test the depth of her abilities; had called her a natural, and without the teasing she’d expected, but she hadn’t put much thought into it―hadn’t suspected she would ever be _ needing _it for something other than guessing who came walking through her doors before they did. But if it could help her now, Makino resolved to learn everything she could.

Ace hadn’t stirred, and bending over the crib, Makino kissed his hair, breathing in his soft baby smell, her hand shaking where it gently cupped the small crown of his head. She didn’t think she’d ever loved anyone as fiercely, except one other.

“Be safe,” she whispered fiercely, and before she could lose the courage she’d spent the day building up, withdrew from the crib, leaving the lamp burning.

Climbing down the ladder, she picked her way softly between the sleeping bandits and the peace, collecting the lantern from the cellar before she grabbed her duffle where she’d left it by the door. From the larder, she retrieved some cured ham and cheese, and half a loaf of bread that she wrapped in oil-paper, along with a thick slice of rum-soaked cake that she’d baked for them. Dadan’s favourite, it had been meant as an offering as much as an apology, for what she was about to do.

No one stirred at the sound of her quiet rummaging as she packed up her duffle, her breathing calm and even as she worked, even as her hands shook on the buttons of her cloak, and the hood where she’d pulled it over her hair. But she didn’t make a sound, or alert anyone to what she was doing.

She was good at that, after years of navigating crowded rooms, easing between the conversation and laughter but never disturbing either, like water where she flowed from one table to another, unnoticed. In return, she was allowed to work unhindered; to slip in under raised arms and shoulders bumping together, to collect glasses and plates without drawing attention to herself, and whisking away before they even realised she’d been there. Happy patrons shouldn’t notice the barmaid if she was doing her job right.

That was also exactly why _ she _ needed to do this. Not a warbringer, but one who bartered in peace, and gentle deception, whose wine tasted sweetly and who no one would suspect of treachery until they were choking on it. And she’d never been a good liar, but it wasn’t a lie to say that she was nobody of great importance, if importance was weighed in coins and deeds, which it too often was on this sea.

No, she wasn’t important―wasn’t even a footnote in the history of their age, but then she’d never aspired for greatness; hadn’t wanted anything but peace, and to be happy.

And Shanks. She’d wanted _ Shanks_, and had been willing to wait however long it took, however long the sea demanded it take. She’d been willing to let him go so many times.

She was done being _ willing. _

The night fairly bulged with sounds, rustling leaves and wood-spirits with their eerie calls, and the low, laughing voice of the brook, the court of night in session with all its attendants, foxes and owls like lords gathered for the hunt, and silver-winged moths emerging from the dark, tempted by the light of her lamp.

She’d never walked through the forest after nightfall, and shutting the door to the cabin behind her, Makino watched where the woods opened up, and the footpath where it snaked into the trees, only to disappear. All around her, crickets sang like sirens under the boughs, a high, keening pitch that seemed to grow louder the more she focused on it, and dragging her attention away from them, she set off down the path without looking back.

Fireflies danced between the leaves, darting away from the lamp where it dangled from her fingers, the soft clatter of the metal container louder than her footsteps where she half-jogged away from the cabin, suddenly afraid that they’d wake and find her gone, and go after her. Her breath rattled in her chest, no longer under the calm and methodical control she’d kept while packing her things. As though finally realising what she was doing―that she was, in fact, _ doing _ it―her body wasn’t as easily convinced as her mind that it was the right decision.

Gulping in enough air to fill her lungs until they ached, Makino forced herself to calm down, slowing her jog to a brisk walk as she focused on drawing deep, even breaths, and laying out the pieces of her plan, as far as she’d made it. It was a long way to the harbour yet, but at this pace, she’d reach Goa Port before the sun could catch up with her, and before Dadan’s family noticed she was gone and put the pieces together. She’d grab the first ship out and go wherever it took her, just far enough to get away from Dawn, and then she needed some way to get to Mariejois, which included someone willing to take her.

As for what she did when she got there…well.

Hopefully, there’d be a bridge for her to cross when she got to it.

When she was at a safe distance from the cabin, she withdrew the Den Den Mushi she’d brought from the duffle slung over her shoulder; the good one Garp had gifted her once, for inter-island calls. _ Just in case_, he’d said, although she’d never used it, no matter how many times she’d wanted to call Shanks.

She regretted her own caution now. It might have kept her safe, but faced with the prospect of never hearing his voice again, Makino couldn’t help but wonder if it had been worth it.

Rifling through her pockets, she withdrew the number she’d plucked from Dadan’s belongings; the other reason she’d asked to spend the night with them, aside from ensuring that her son was in good hands.

Dialling it, she waited, but didn’t cease her brisk pace. Ahead, the footpath continued deeper into the forest, having become more narrow and overgrown, the trees leaning over the path, like curious onlookers bending their heads to observe her passing. A bird called through the dark; a long, mournful warble she felt in her chest.

Her breaths were coming quicker, and her heart rate betrayed her attempted calm, but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep walking, to put more distance between herself and her baby. If she hesitated even a second, if she allowed herself to doubt, she wouldn’t be able to do it. And so keeping a firm grip on her courage, she kept walking forward, down the winding footpath where it sloped, steeper and steeper into the Midway Forest, yawning open with all its sounds, as though to swallow her up.

Finally, there was a _ click _ on the other end, and then, _ “Hello?” _

His voice sounded suddenly loud, so much that Makino nearly fumbled the snail in surprise, but she’d put Dadan’s cabin far behind her, and there was no one around to hear. How she could say that with certainty she wasn’t sure; it was just that sense, that observation.

“Sabo,” she said, and watched as the snail’s eyes sprang wide, before there was a flurry of movement on the other end, as though he’d jumped up from his seat, and the rustling of what sounded like paper as Sabo scrambled for his Den Den Mushi. From his end, another voice sounded (_“Sabo-kun, the blueprints! Mou, now there’s coffee stains all over―”_), before Sabo spoke again.

_ “Ma-chan,” _ he said roughly, the endearment making her throat feel tight. The Den Den Mushi’s expression was fierce, not the sympathy she hated but something closer to anger, and her gratitude was so immense she could have wept just for that―for the fury on her behalf. _ “I saw the paper. Are you―” _

He didn’t finish the question, likely because he recognised that it was fruitless asking if she was okay, and Makino appreciated his practicality; a protectiveness that didn’t also try to coddle her.

In that moment, she felt suddenly, unshakeably certain that she’d called the right person.

“Remember when you told me not to do anything reckless?”

The Den Den Mushi’s expression showed confusion, although not to what she was asking―the joking remark he’d left her with when they’d parted last, standing on the Fuschia docks, her belly heavy with her son. But he had to have picked up on her voice, and that she sounded like she was walking, and quickly. And maybe he even heard something else in it; the determination that was driving her forward now, away from Dadan’s cabin, and from her son.

But Ace would be safe with Dadan. If there was one thing Makino knew for certain, when she still wasn’t a hundred percent sure she was making the right choice, it was that.

Before Sabo could answer, or ask what she was doing, “I’m about to do something really reckless,” Makino said, and saw how the snail’s eyes widened, before she steeled her conviction, unwilling to be dissuaded or refused this time.

“And I need you to help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In both Charybdis and Mnemosyne, Makino is ripped from her safe environment and forced to adjust, but this time around I wanted to explore a scenario in which she willingly chooses to leave her comfort zone. I’ve briefly touched upon this in A New Tide In an Old Bottle, but this is, er, the slightly more dramatic version. There’ll be heist shenanigans (of the ‘help me break my fool husband out of jail’ type), infiltration and disguises, family, and of course, loving marriage fluff because I am who I am. I also love writing my girl and exploring different facets of her character, and so this fic is very much about her.
> 
> (and Makino’s reference to Sabo’s comment is from [Rage, Gentle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20737235), which explores them meeting during the timeskip)


	2. A woman of no consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work has been keeping me busy but I'm trying to get some writing done in between sprints, and I wanted to get this update out of my system before I tackle the next Mnemosyne chapter, which is already a beast.
> 
> I also wanted to thank those who left an encouraging comment on the first chapter! It makes such a huge difference with a new story to hear that someone is excited to read more, and you're honestly the reason it doesn't stop at chapter one. So yeah. You guys are wonderful, I hope you know.

She beat the sun to Goa only by a few seconds, arriving at the gates just as the first rays caught the top of the high walls. Above, the wide ceiling of the sky was dawning, as pink as her cheeks where the sea air had bit them with a chill, the burning clouds growing thinner as the day took its time getting warm.

There was something almost unearthly about it, the high walls shrouded in mist and the tops of the city’s spires gleaming where the sun touched them. She could see the pennants flying from the parapets: the grey silk banners, and the yellow daisy with its three feathers emblazoned on them. The symbol of their kingdom, although Makino had never felt any particular allegiance towards it.

Rising out of the mist, Grey Terminal looked similarly otherworldly but for a vastly different reason, the towering heaps of garbage like rolling hills, separating the city outskirts from the Midway Forest, the dark green pines piercing the sky where they stood, erect and unbending guardians.

She was standing between two trunks, at the top of the slope where it plunged down towards the junkyard, and picking her way down the steep incline, Makino kept a wary eye on the mounds of garbage, observing what looked like makeshift houses pulled together from scraps; a shanty town littering the winding dirt road where it snaked through the junkyard towards the city gates.

It was too early for anyone to be out, or if there were, they left her alone, allowing her to pass through undisturbed, although any hopes she’d had of entering the city without drawing attention to herself were dashed by the guards stationed at the gates.

“Hold it!" called a voice, booming through the quiet, and startling a rat into scurrying back under an upturned crate. "Who goes there?”

There were two of them, having been idling in their duties, close to the end of their shifts, perhaps, although they'd both sprung to attention now, regarding her suspiciously where she emerged from the mist, her cloak wrapped around her, although Makino doubted she cut an intimidating figure, the top of her head barely reaching their chests. But they looked wary, their hands straying to the weapons at their waists.

She lifted her hood, enough to reveal her face, and saw their surprise where it wiped away their suspicion, leaving one of them with his mouth hanging open. They'd no doubt thought her a bandit or a vagrant, although their reaction seemed a bit excessive, Makino thought.

His partner was quicker to recover, clearing his throat. “Miss,” he said. Makino didn’t bother correcting him; her wedding ring hung on the chain around her neck, in the hollow between her breasts with Shanks’ vivre card. “State your business in Goa.”

“I have a shipment coming in,” she lied, and tried her best not to grimace, or to show that she couldn’t lie to save her life, and hoped piling on some truth would distract them from noticing. “I run a bar in Fuschia village, on the other side of Mt. Colubo.”

The one who’d addressed her didn’t look convinced, but it was his partner who said, “Hey, I know that one! Party’s.” He looked her up and down, a note of hunger in his eyes now, but she didn’t flinch away from it, keeping her spine straight as she met his appraising look without grimacing. “Previous owner was a real piece of work. You’re much easier on the eyes.”

The callous mention of her mother had her hands fisting at her sides, but she didn’t let the remark touch her further, or the slick caress of his eyes where they roamed across her, pausing at her chest where it showed through the slit of her cloak. In her years of running a bar, she’d endured worse.

“You walked here from Fuschia?” the first guard said. He wasn’t as obvious about his leering as his partner, even as she sensed what he felt, like a stench where it rose from him, taking her in. He also didn’t look fully convinced by her reason for being there. “It's one hell of a risk, on your own. There are bandits in the hills.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her face, and Makino hoped it didn’t reveal what she was thinking, and tried to keep her voice mild. “I must have been lucky.”

They shared a look. Then the second one said, “So…you run that bar of yours by yourself?”

The suggestive note in his voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. And a stubborn part of her wanted to tell them the truth, but like the wedding ring she’d hidden away, she couldn’t risk them asking too many questions, especially now. And so, “I do,” she said. It was a partial truth, and the only kind she could afford.

“A lot of hard work for one little lady,” he said, with a grin that suggested he meant it as a compliment, despite the slight purse of her mouth.

“It is what it is,” Makino said calmly, and hoping to steer the conversation back on track, “But I need to see to my shipment. I have to be there to sign off on it before they set sail.”

“It's a long way to come for a shipment,” the first one said, cocking his head. His eyes were narrowed slightly where they held hers. "Why not have it delivered?”

“It’s only the one box,” she said, grasping for an explanation, but she could talk about the business of running a bar without incentive. “A special order. I didn’t want to leave it to someone else. And this was their preferred port of call, or I would have requested they stop in Fuschia.”

He was watching her, but he seemed convinced that she was telling the truth now. Maybe her show of nervousness was what did it; men like that preferred it when women were meek and subservient. As long as she didn’t challenge him somehow, she’d be fine.

His partner, however… 

“I could escort you back later,” he said, although his grin told her he had no intention of escorting her anywhere. “Once my shift is over. I could help you carry that box.”

She might have refused if she hadn’t been so sure about what that would earn her, and wanting to get past them as quickly as possible, “I’ll think about it,” Makino said, ducking her gaze in what she hoped made her look shy, and not that she felt sick from his leering.

Mollified by her apparent meekness, which wasn’t as feigned as she would have liked, they stepped out of the way to let her pass. She tried not to notice how their eyes followed her inside, and hoped they didn’t notice how she accelerated her pace, suddenly eager to put some distance between them before they changed their minds about letting her in, or decided to do something else with her.

But walking through the gates, the city opened up before her, and lifting her eyes to it, Makino forgot she was in a hurry.

She’d been told she’d visited once with her mother when she’d been very young, but the memories were gauzy, stretched thin over the years that had passed since, and she wasn’t sure if the impressions that remained were her own, or if they’d simply been spun to life from her imagination by what others had told her.

She felt at once fascinated and repulsed, walking through Hightown proper with its pristine facades; the cobblestones polished to shining and the cast-iron fences looking like they’d just come from the blacksmith. Spacious townhouses lined the streets in neat rows, brownstones several stories high with steep, slanting rooftops in slate grey tiles and neat front gardens, clusters of pale orange trees in bloom and ivy climbing the fences, trimmed to perfection. It was a world apart from Fuschia with its sparse, cheerful houses and fishing cabins, and the windmills scattered over the rolling fields, no plan behind their placement. Here, not a townhouse was out of order, slotted neatly amidst its peers; as though like the humans they housed, they were content with the place they’d been allotted in this world. They knew where they ranked on the social ladder, as demonstrated by the size of their gardens, or the elaborate design of a front gate, social status boasted in gilded emblems and unnecessary marble columns.

Already she missed the never-ending sky of her home, lifting her eyes now to the slit visible between the houses crowding the narrow street. Walking among them, she felt small. Insignificant and out of her depth, and she hadn’t even left Dawn yet.

She tried not to think too hard about where she was headed, although couldn’t help it. If this town was daunting, she couldn’t imagine what Mariejois would be like.

The shops were opening as she walked past, a waiter in a black, pressed suit putting out tables by a restaurant while an elderly proprietor washed the windows in front of his bookshop, which might have tempted her gaze on any other day. From out of a nearby bakery drifted the smell of fresh loaves, leaving her stomach rumbling, even as she didn’t have much of an appetite to eat.

But observing their small routines allowed her shoulders to relax. In Fuschia, she was usually the first one up, but there was something nice about this, being part of a community of early risers. Watching them as they each tended to their own business, exchanging pleasantries as they worked, Makino wondered idly what it would be like, had she lived somewhere bigger than her little hamlet.

They didn’t greet her, no doubt taking her for a stranger, and none of them spared her passing more than a fleeting glance. Tugging her hood down so they couldn’t see her face, she hoped no one would stop her, or ask her where she was going or why, but no one did, all of them busy with their own affairs, having opening hours to meet, and chores that needed doing.

Ahead of her was a young boy sweeping the street of leaves and litter, while another darted past carrying an armful of rolled-up newspapers, nearly knocking her over in the process. “Oh, sorry miss!”

He'd darted off before she could tell him it was alright, the satchel slung across his back bulging with more papers as he raised his voice to call out, “Red-Haired Shanks to be executed!”, brandishing a newspaper when one of the storefront owners waved him over with a coin. “Read the special edition outlining the heights of his career! Thank you, sir!”

The sudden surge of anger caught her off guard, so fierce it stole her breath, and she had to press her lips together to keep from opening her mouth to voice her outrage.

"Can’t believe they got him,” said the owner of the bookshop, who’d paid the boy for a newspaper. He was considering the front page, and Makino was glad she couldn’t see what was on it. “Will be interesting to see what becomes of this, given what happened last time.”

“Doubt there’ll be another war,” said the baker where he leaned against the doorway of his shop, his broad hands covered in flour and planted on his hips. “What are they going to do, storm the Holy Land?” He gave a loud, barking laugh, as though it was beyond imagining.

“That’s what they said about Marineford,” the bookshop-owner pointed out. “And Impel Down.”

“Maybe. But the Celestial Dragons are involved this time. And it’s the Reverie. With the number of nobles due to attend, their security will be ramped up to the max.”

“Still. Looking at his career, I find it hard to believe they’ll be keeping him long. They’ve tried to execute Kaidou before, right?”

“Yeah, but Red-Hair isn’t Kaidou. And Roger was the worst of the lot, and they got him in the end.”

Her hands clenched, shaking where she’d hidden them in the folds of her skirt. She couldn't move, not even to walk away.

“True.” The rustling of paper sounded as he flipped a page. “Impressive life, though. He’s not even forty. But then he started out young, I guess.”

“That’s what you get when you begin your career in the Pirate King’s crew. Always figured Red-Hair was bound for the same path, all the way to the execution platform.”

“No shit. Look at this―‘Age seventeen. Bounty: 48.9 million.’ What the hell was I doing at seventeen?”

“They live different lives from us,” the baker said, brushing the flour off his hands. “Pirates.” He scoffed. “Lawless, all of ‘em. Can’t say he didn’t have it coming. You choose that way of life, it’ll catch up with you eventually.”

“Wonder if someone like him would have a family? Roger did.”

“Doubt he'd risk it,” said the baker. “And from what I’ve heard of Red-Hair, he’s not the sort to be tied down. He had a reputation back in the day.”

“Yeah, some of this stuff is pretty wild. He got around when he was younger. Not in recent years, though. Think he grew tired of it?”

“Would you have grown tired of it if women were falling at your feet to get into your bed?”

Unable to take any more, she shoved forward, but not before she could catch the bellowing laugh from the owner of the bookshop, and his musing, “Fair enough. There’ll be tears shed at his execution, I wager. Think there’ll be girls lining the way to the platform? I can think of worse ways for a man to go into death. Suppose it’s a fitting end for Red-Hair.”

Hurrying past them, she forced her anger down with her sob, keeping her eyes on the street ahead and from drifting to the newspapers that had been pinned to noticeboards and in the windows of the local shops, Shanks’ face looking at her from every direction, until she felt like screaming.

She wasn’t looking where she was going, was just eager to get away, to find somewhere quiet to think, moving between the people who'd come out into the streets, catching snippets of conversations but shying away from the mention of his name, and anything related to it.

She knew those stories; the things the newspaper didn’t say. She knew that pirate, the real one, not the legend they all claimed to know, who might as well not have been real to them for how they talked about him, callously weighing the likelihood that his execution would be televised after what had happened last time, and whether or not he’d make it a show worth watching, as though they weren’t talking about killing him. As though his life wasn’t worth more than the entertainment it would bring them to watch it come to an end.

She felt short of breath, and a cold sweat clung to her spine under her bodice, between her breasts, but she didn’t reach to check his vivre card where it was pressed against her skin, as close as she could keep it. She hadn’t felt anything, which meant he hadn’t been hurt further, but it was a numb knowledge without comfort, knowing now where they were keeping him.

She’d arrived at a plaza, a stone staircase sloping gently into an open space as the brownstones fanned out on each side. More trees had been planted, this time in a perfect half-circle, cherry blossoms wrapped with white ribbons, as though for a celebration. At the centre stood a large stone fountain turned green with age, depicting a beautiful girl dancing in the shallows, a delicate stream of water flowing from her cupped hands. She wore a crown of daisies, and feathers sprouted from her back. Waves had been carved along the foot of the fountain, as though she’d courted the sea to dance, and people had gathered around it, most of them busy reading the newspaper.

In the distance, she could see the horizon, and East Blue where she'd dressed in sunlight, glittering white. Closer to the harbour, the air smelled faintly of brine, and the small familiarity helped, when everything else was so different.

More people had come out as the sun had climbed higher, a note of excitement stirring the air where they stood in doorways and leaned out of windows, all of them discussing the paper, and Shanks, the mention of him as unavoidable as his face on the front page, even as she tried her hardest not to notice.

Inevitably, her will gave out, and collecting a discarded newspaper, Makino unfolded it, sinking down on the nearest bench as she skimmed the articles. Several pages had been dedicated to laying out his life, or at least the most important events, according to the media.

There was no mention of her, or their son, and she didn’t know why it should bother her, but her hands shook where they gripped the newspaper.

But maybe she did know why. That when his life was laid out for the world to see and judge, she had no place in it. Not as far as the rest of the world was concerned, anyway.

There were pictures accompanying the articles, many she recognised from his official records, but there were others she hadn’t seen before, and her gaze absorbed them now, almost greedily.

There was one from when he’d been very young, not a hint of beard on his cheeks. He didn’t have his scars, which was the most prominent difference, although if she counted them, there were more differences than similarities to the man she knew. From the look of him Makino would have guessed he was sixteen or seventeen. He was skinny, in a plain, surprisingly modest shirt, and wore a wide, boyish grin that still carried a hint of innocence, although knowing Shanks, that could be entirely feigned. But he looked like a boy―like what their boy might look like, in sixteen years.

There were more photographs of him before his amputation than after, and it took her a moment to realise what was so off about them, and then to understand that she’d grown so used to his missing arm, she found the pictures of him with two hard to reconcile with the one in her memory, of the man who was her husband.

There was one from the war. A whole page had been dedicated to it, showing him at the head of his crew, and the sight of them hurt, when she had no idea where they were, or if they were even still alive.

He had Gryphon drawn, but casually, as though he had no intention of using it―as though he’d already known he wouldn’t need to. His back was straight, his broad shoulders level, and his cloak draping over the stump of his left arm, making it hard to tell that it was missing, unless you knew what to look for. His hair was drawn back from his face, his handsome features chiselled stone, his brow heavy and his mouth downturned, a different kind of seriousness than his wanted poster boasted, which had always been a bit ambiguous. But there was no ambiguity in this photograph, showing a hard, powerful man; the Emperor and commander. And she’d watched the broadcast, but it was different seeing him now, in hindsight; the moment that had condemned him so unforgivably in Akainu’s eyes.

She only glanced at the caption, not wanting to read what they’d written about him. The judgement of the public press, which wasn’t much kinder than the World Government’s.

On the page beside it, there was a picture that was more recent. Makino thought it had to have been taken sometime this year, noticing his thicker beard, and the thin chain peeking out from the open neck of his shirt where he kept his wedding ring. It was a candid shot, and looked to have been taken in a bar somewhere. He was surrounded by people, but was clearly the centre of attention. And he was smiling, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and his gaze was on the camera, as though he'd noticed right before it had been taken and had decided to indulge the photographer. There was a curious intimacy there, an openness to him that drew the eyes and held them; an uncomplicated honesty belonging to a man comfortable with sharing parts of himself.

It was the only picture that showed him the way Makino knew him. Brushing her fingers over the smiling tilt of his mouth, she wondered who’d captured it.

A commotion across the plaza dragged her attention away from Shanks and the newspaper. And she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, she saw from the people around her, murmuring under their breaths, and following their gazes found a group of marines, seeming to be going door-to-door. They were less than a stone’s throw away from where she was sitting, but she’d been so immersed in the newspaper she hadn’t spotted them before now.

“She might come through here,” said the one at the front, who judging by the coat over his uniform was the highest ranking officer. He appeared to be briefing the others. “We’re keeping our eyes open, and we’ve got a division searching the rest of the island.”

Panic seized her breath, before she willed it back out.

They couldn’t be talking about her. How would they even have found out? It had to be someone else; a coincidence only. She was just on edge with everything that had happened, that was all.

“She’ll have a baby with her,” the marine continued, and her heart stopped dead in her chest. “They passed along her description from New Marineford. A young woman in her early thirties with dark hair and brown eyes. She’s small and likely unarmed, but given who her husband is, we shouldn’t underestimate her.”

She didn’t move, frozen where she sat on the bench, the newspaper open in her lap and Shanks’ face staring up at her. She had her hood off, her whole face visible and baring all her feelings, which was the most incriminating part.

_Please don’t see me, _she thought, her hands gripping the paper so hard it crumbled. She heard them coming closer, the rattling of their weapons, but kept her gaze lowered, focused on Shanks’ picture where it stared back without seeing her.

She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible―as though she could will herself to be invisible, to slip their notice, withdrawing into herself to that calm place within her where only she existed. She imagined herself, her ankles submerged in still water, not a ripple disturbing the surface; pictured herself blending into the dark, into the water, as still as both, as though she _ was _ water, trickling through the cracks, slipping through their fingers like the cupped hands of the girl in the fountain.

_ Don’t look this way, don’t look this way, don’t look this way. _

Any second, she was sure they’d recognise her, but before she knew what had happened, they’d walked past her without even glancing her way, even as their eyes swept the plaza, searching the people gathered.

Eyes wide, Makino stared straight ahead.

She didn’t understand what had happened. Even if she didn’t have her son with her, she fit their description to a tee. At the very least, they should have questioned her for bearing a passing resemblance, but they'd passed her as though she didn’t even exist.

She didn’t dare breathe, her chest hurting where she held it, and didn’t let it go until they’d crossed the plaza and walked up the steps into Hightown.

For a long beat, she couldn’t move, and it wasn’t relief she felt now but _fear_, locking her limbs in place where she sat on the bench. The still waters within her stirred, like the first ripples of a building storm.

She had to get off the island.

Rising from the bench, she kept her movements calm and from attracting attention to herself, and crossing the plaza, tried her best not to look suspicious, leaving her hood off but keeping her eyes lowered demurely, and hoped they’d be too busy going about their own business to look at her twice.

And she hadn’t felt fear for herself, leaving Dadan’s; had counted on being able to travel unnoticed, on account of there being no one to suspect her, but if the marines were looking for her, how was she supposed to leave Dawn without getting caught?

Safely out of the plaza, the city opened its beating heart to the sea, the pristine Hightown storefronts exchanged with blacksmiths and fishmongers, and a sprawling market along the waterfront where the ships lay moored, dressed in white. Seagulls circled overhead, echoing the vendors crying out their wares on the docks below. A cover of sails blocked the view of the ocean, so many ships she could barely glimpse the horizon behind them now, a vastly different port than Fuschia’s mostly empty docks, where only their fishing dinghies held court amidst the wicker traps.

Taking it all in, Makino thought even the sea felt different here; the horizon the same as the one she’d grown up watching, although it had never felt further away than it did now.

She spent a few minutes walking aimlessly along the waterfront, wondering what to do, a different kind of helplessness dogging her now that had nothing to do with her conviction, as she realised just how ill-prepared she was for what she’d set out to do. Shanks had bartered his way onto his first ship when he’d been ten years old. And it might have made her laugh, considering her own reluctance now, thirty-one and stumbling at the thought of simply _ asking_, if she could have endured thinking about him.

Halting, she drew a deep breath; filled her lungs with fresh sea air, and forced herself to think.

She didn’t quail at challenges. These might be uncharted waters, and in more than just a figurative sense, but even if she’d never tried anything like this, that didn’t mean she couldn’t.

Walking along the wharf, taking care not to appear suspicious, as though she was simply looking for someone, she looked for a ship about to depart, her thoughts veering between options, and whether she’d be better off asking for passage or stowing away, although even more pressing was the thought that if she was desperate enough, did it matter?

But then, as though by a sheer stroke of luck, she glanced up just in time to catch the eye of a man standing by the gangway of a schooner in the midst of raising anchor. _Cassiopeia_, sleek and dark with her midnight blue sails, and she knew that name, like she knew the man who owned her. Tall and slender, his chestnut hair gathered in a cord at his nape, and his weight supported by a sleek silver cane; an old injury to his knee, which had given him a limp.

Makino saw him frown, before recognition widened his eyes, and her relief nearly buckled her knees, but then after the night and morning she’d had, she felt like a feather could have knocked her over.

“Makino-san?”

He looked surprised to see her, but then she didn’t blame him. The furthest she’d ever gone from Fuschia had been Dadan’s cabin, and he wouldn’t have expected to find her here.

His smile didn’t betray anything but mild curiosity, although when he asked her his voice had a suddenly knowing lilt, “You’ve got business in Goa?”

He would have read the newspaper. Makino didn’t know if there was anyone in the world who didn’t know about Shanks by now. But the way he looked at her didn’t change, although she caught the way his gaze darted behind her, as though to check if she’d been followed.

“Something like that,” she said, and lowering her voice, “I need to get off the island. As quickly and discreetly as possible.”

She didn’t say why, but then she didn’t have to. Leodes had a sister in Fuschia, and even though his visits were often far between, had been a regular in her bar since before her son had been born. He'd brought her a gift once; a rare bottle of liquor from North Blue, along with an offer of sharing it, but had taken her rejection with a sheepish grin and a shrug, and that had been the end of the matter. Makino had always liked him for that.

He also knew Shanks personally, and even if he didn’t suspect what she was up to, would recognise why she might need to get away.

She caught the way his gaze searched her, but he didn’t ask about her son, and she was glad. The less she thought about what she was leaving behind, the better. She didn’t know if she could make herself set foot aboard a ship if she let herself doubt what she was doing.

He inclined his head to the vessel behind him. “Come on,” he said. “You caught us at a good time. We’re just about to head out.”

She didn’t know if she was relieved or distressed, as it didn’t give her the chance to hesitate, and all she could do was nod, accepting his hand as he helped her aboard.

She caught herself on the railing, her legs a bit unsteady as the ship rocked beneath her, and tried her best to ignore the fact that she got seasick from less. But in scrambling for a distraction, she was left with the realisation that this would be her first time setting out to sea. She’d only ever been aboard Shanks’ ship before this, and then only while she’d been anchored. If a ship would take her anywhere, she’d always imagined it would be his.

The crew threw her curious glances as she came aboard, momentarily distracted from their work by the sight of her. Makino tried to avoid meeting their eyes, although couldn’t exactly ignore being the sudden centre of attention, their curiosity so bright she almost flinched away from it. But they didn’t question their captain as he led her across the deck, calling over his shoulder for them to get them going while the wind was in their favour.

There was a brief second where she thought she saw a familiar face, a single presence standing out in her mind, even as she couldn’t put her finger on where she’d felt it before, but when she looked again, they were gone, as though it had only been a trick of the light.

Blinking her eyes, Makino shook her head. She was so nervous, she wasn’t surprised she was jumping at shadows.

The captain held the door to the deckhouse open for her, and she hoped the wind would carry them off quickly, and that they’d take advantage of whatever boon the sea had to offer. And she didn’t look back as the door swung shut behind them, cutting her off from Goa Port, along with her last glimpse of Dawn Island. Any other time, she would have stood on deck and watched as they drew away from the harbour, the island growing smaller and smaller before the horizon swallowed it, but now the only thing she could think about was the pressing need to get away, and as fast as humanly possible. It drummed against her chest, rippling the still waters within her, a restless, warning rhythm, as though the sea too was urging her to go, go, _ go. _

“Here,” he said, holding the door to the captain’s quarters open for her. “Have a seat, and I’ll see that you’re given a cabin. Do you have a destination in mind?”

Her gratitude eclipsed her fear, making her voice hoarse when she said, “Orange Town.”

He nodded, and didn’t ask why she was going there, only left her to oversee their departure. Shutting the door behind him, Makino listened to the soft _thunk_ of his cane as he walked away, following his route through the ship, as though she could map out the inside of the vessel in her mind, but it hurt concentrating, a throbbing behind her brow when she tried, and so she quickly gave up.

The offered privacy was a desperate welcome after fearing she’d be recognised any moment, having never felt so exposed, and with a shuddering sigh she sank into one of the armchairs by the hearth. An eager fire licked the logs there, hot and bright and warming up the cold cabin, which smelled of salt and oiled timber. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light slicing through the porthole, and she could see the reflection of the sea where it moved across the planks.

From outside she could hear the crew working, the noise of the port fading as they drew away. Her heart still seemed the loudest, painful where it flung itself against her ribcage, like it wanted to flee, too. Her whole back was soaked in sweat, and she felt like she had a fever coming, but forced herself to calm down, and to get her breathing under control.

A few deep breaths helped, her white-knuckled fist pressed against the base of her ribs as she allowed them to reach all the way into her gut before letting them out. She was trembling so much she thought she was about to throw up.

Focusing on herself instead of the ship, she tried to lay out her plan, directing her thoughts to where she was going instead of letting them drift back to the island they were leaving, and her baby that she’d left.

But he’d be safer without her. If she hadn’t gone to Dadan’s―if she’d stayed in Fuschia with him, and those marines had found them…

Opening her eyes from where they’d slipped shut, Makino considered the captain’s quarters. It was humbly furnished, like Shanks’, and the small familiarity comforted her, when she had nothing else.

Out on deck, she heard Leodes calling to release more sails, and felt how the sea pulled on the ship, its movements firmer, but then it was a smaller vessel than Red Force and sat closer to the waterline. It had no cannons, and only two masts, but she hoped its inconspicuous appearance would be to her benefit; that they wouldn’t look at it too closely, if it came to that.

Now she just had to find Sabo. He’d told her to meet him in Orange Town, where there wasn’t as great a risk of him being recognised, but even if he’d told her to wait for him in Goa, Makino didn’t know if she could have endured it. Because even insignificant, she felt the shift that had happened sometime during the past two days; the sudden realisation that something had changed irrevocably, but she didn’t know if it was her, or just the way the world saw her.

Or maybe the first had happened a long time ago, and the world was only now catching up.

―

They arrived to find the bar closed.

Woop Slap watched as they came up from the wharf, their white uniforms hard on the eyes, brightened by the sun where it idled on a clean, cloudless sky. It was only a small division, not enough to raise brows, which was no doubt a deliberate choice, although it seemed a useless precaution when they were all visibly armed.

They’d stopped in the street outside Party’s. Two had gone inside, but they wouldn’t find her there, although what would happen when they didn’t, he didn’t know.

And there wasn’t much they could do for her, but Woop Slap hoped they could buy her some time.

The two marines who’d gone in came back out, shaking their heads, the bat-wing doors swinging behind them, the hinges keening. The whole village had come out to observe the commotion, and at least their wariness didn’t need to be faked. Woop Slap only hoped the marines couldn’t tell what the real reason was.

The one who’d led them ashore turned towards him, a clean-shaven officer with a black handlebar moustache. “You,” he said. He was the only one out of uniform, dressed instead in a pressed, pinstripe suit; a Vice-Admiral judging by the insignia on his white coat. “Old man. You in charge here?”

“I am,” Woop Slap said, uselessly, because they’d no doubt already looked him up in the records. But he’d play along, like they were, acting as though they were only there to ask questions.

The Vice-Admiral nodded to Party’s. The windows were shut, and the bar within quiet. Usually by now she’d be busy getting it ready for opening, the sound of her singing drifting out as she swept the floors, shanties for scrubbing decks and hauling lines drawing startled grins from those passing by. She hadn’t used to do that as a girl, he remembered, too shy to even raise her voice. But then there were many ways she’d changed.

“The woman who owns this bar,” said the Vice-Admiral. “Where is she?”

Woop Slap raised his brows in a show of acting surprised, but with the mild indifference of an old man. One of the perks of being one. “She’s not inside?”

The Vice-Admiral watched him, his own expression blank. “Have you seen her this morning?”

He shook his head. That, at least, was true. “I can’t say that I have.”

The Vice-Admiral’s eyes narrowed, before he swept them over the gathered crowd. “Has anyone seen her today?”

They all shook their heads, and the Vice-Admiral’s frown deepened, before he asked, a tinge of suspicion entering his voice now, “And none of you found that curious?”

Woop Slap was glad when someone spoke up, “We’ve all got our own businesses to see to, Vice-Admiral.”

He didn’t look convinced. “And not one of you’ve been in for a drink?” he asked, looking between them, his eyes roaming their faces in search of lies, but then they had a long history of harbouring pirates here. He’d have to dig much deeper to unearth anything worthwhile.

Someone scoffed a laugh. “We don’t spend all day drinking.”

“Yeah, we’re not pirates!”

“What do you want Makino for anyway?”

The Vice-Admiral looked between them all, before his gaze came to land on Woop Slap. “Are you familiar with a pirate named Red-Hair?”

Woop Slap frowned, an expression of disapproval that was only partly feigned, although the lad had, regrettably, grown on him. “The one they’re executing? Aye, I’ve heard of him. Doubt there are many who haven’t.”

The Vice-Admiral’s expression revealed nothing of what he thought of that; if he could see that he was deliberately omitting a whole lot of incriminating details, like the fact that he’d attended the man’s wedding. “We’ve been told he has connections to this village.”

Someone behind him laughed, the small distraction drawing the Vice-Admiral’s scrutiny away, allowing Woop Slap to catch his breath, as more voices chimed in.

“A pirate like that, coming here? I think we would have noticed.”

“Isn’t he a pretty big deal in the New World?”

“What would he want in our village?”

Murmurs of agreement punctuated the queries, and good-natured chuckles, as though the idea tickled them all but was too much to believe; as though they didn’t all know the man personally.

Someone asked, incredulous, “You’re not suggesting _ she’s _ got something to do with Red-Hair?”

“Our Makino?”

“A _ pirate_?”

They all laughed. Woop Slap didn’t, observing the marines where they exchanged looks. Some of the younger recruits shifted their weight, hesitant.

“Maybe our intel was wrong,” one of the junior officers murmured, but if the Vice-Admiral heard, he didn’t acknowledge the remark, only raised his voice.

“This woman is wanted by the World Government!” The commanding lash of his voice silenced their growing mirth, and keeping it raised, he said, “Marriage to a pirate is against the law, and to a pirate like Red-Hair, punishable by death.”

He allowed the words to sit for a moment, imprinted on the silence that had descended over the street. They all felt their weight, made heavier by the sight of her empty bar. Woop Slap thought of her wedding, the flowers that had littered the street all the way to the shore.

“However, if she cooperates, she might be given a reduced sentence,” the Vice-Admiral continued. There was no persuading purr in his voice, only the same hard inflections, a fact further emphasised by his next remark where it struck the quiet, “But if she is found resisting arrest, she will be tried alongside her husband.”

He looked out across them all. No one was laughing now. “And anyone found guilty harbouring a criminal or aiding in her escape will be tried and sentenced under the same charges,” he finished, his gaze taking them all in, searching every face for deceit. “Now, I ask you again: do any of you have information concerning the whereabouts of Red-Hair’s wife?”

No one spoke. The question hung in the air, the weight of the underlying threat heavier than even the loudness of his voice, but no one buckled, even with the encouragement of the armed division staring them down.

The Vice-Admiral showed no sign of disappointment or anger. “You’ve made your choice,” he said simply. “We'll see if you regret it.”

Turning to the officers behind him, “Search the area,” he ordered. “Our scout reported that she was here yesterday. If she left, she can’t have gotten far. We’ve got another division searching the forest, and Goa. They’ll find her if she went that way.”

“Aye!”

They fanned out, whatever pretence of friendliness they’d arrived with shucked in earnest as they began searching the nearby houses, not even bothering to knock on the doors as they let themselves inside. They had their weapons drawn now, and moved differently, not like they were simply there to question a barmaid, but as though they were hunting a criminal.

His hands shook, but he kept the tight cross of his arms from letting it show, and in making a show of following the marines, his prerogative as the mayor to oversee their business, or at least that’s what he hoped he could claim if questioned, he kept his voice down, knowing the urgency transferred, because they all felt it.

“Someone call Dadan.”

―

The knocking on her door wasn’t what woke her; she’d been up for hours, back in a routine she hadn’t performed in twenty-odd years, with a boy who was an even earlier bird than his mother, but she was glad of it now that she’d had time to prepare, even before the call.

The hammering on her door continued, but ignoring the voice calling from outside, Dadan took her time putting down the receiver before moving across the cabin to open it, planting herself in the middle of the doorway to peer down at the group of navy recruits gathered on her doorstep.

“It’s early for house calls,” she grunted, taking them in, and making sure her displeasure was felt. Not a whole division, and none of them with a higher rank than lieutenant. They were all of them armed, but then they’d no doubt been briefed about what to expect.

They all looked at each other, their nervous gazes darting to the side, hesitating to settle on hers, before the one in the front cleared his throat, and squaring his scrawny shoulders, took a step forward and declared, “We’re looking for a woman.”

Dadan crossed her arms. “I’m a woman.”

The recruits behind him shared a nervous glance. To his credit, the young lieutenant hadn’t stepped back, although he didn’t seem to know quite what to say to that, and when Dadan only raised her brows, one of his companions stuttered, “Er, well, she’s―”

“Younger,” another one blurted, and seized up when Dadan’s gaze shot towards him.

“You saying I’m old?”

“N-no! I-I mean, she’s just young_er_―”

“Dark haired, and beautiful,” said his partner, as though having decided to come to his rescue, but then, no doubt realising how _ that _ had sounded, was quick to amend, “O-Or we were told she was, anyway!”

Dadan arched a brow at them, and shifted her weight deliberately. “You saying I’m not beautiful?”

They all looked ready to make a run for it, but the young lieutenant met her eyes. “She owns the bar in Fuschia Port. She’ll have a baby with her.”

Dadan took him in, noting his bright eyes and the determined press of his mouth. He couldn’t be much older than twenty. Ace had had the same posture, the last time she’d seen him before he’d set out to sea; too much pent-up eagerness, and a spine as straight as a mast.

“I know who she is, but I haven’t seen ‘er,” she said at length. Thin layers of truth always helped sell a convincing lie. “The hell do you want her for, anyway? She been running her business without a drinking permit or something?”

He didn’t cower. She saw his hand where it brushed the pistol at his waist, but he didn’t draw it. “That’s the navy’s business, ma’am.”

Dadan just watched him, saying nothing. Then, “Mah, whatever she did, she ain’t come through these parts. Not to my knowledge, anyway.” She paused, then asked, in what she hoped betrayed a different kind of curiosity than the knot at the bottom of her ribcage, “There a price on her head?”

His expression didn’t reveal if he’d heard it for what it was. “Not yet.”

_ Yet. _She made a noncommittal sound. “Either way, good luck finding her in these woods.” She looked him dead in the eye and said, mildly, “They don’t like strangers, and tougher folk get lost on clearer days than this. A pretty barmaid? If she went in, odds are she won't make it back out.”

The words were heavy in her mouth, but she didn’t allow her expression to reveal her thoughts, or her hope that she was wrong; that Makino had made it to Goa, and further still, because if there were marines looking for her all the way out here…

The lieutenant seemed to consider her, and there was a second where Dadan thought he’d demand to be let inside, before he nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am.”

She said nothing, and didn’t move away from the door as he retreated, the other officers falling in behind him as they retraced their steps down the footpath. Their white and blue uniforms stood out against the greenery, and she watched them until the forest had swallowed them up, hoping that it wouldn’t let them back out, at least not until Makino was long gone.

Shutting the door, she waited a breath, before turning to her family where they were gathered, their weapons drawn and ready.

Magra was holding Ace in his arms, who’d been thankfully quiet. He was sucking on his fingers, but showed no sign of distress at their behaviour, was only curious, and unaware of the tension in the room and the numerous hands where they gripped swords and pistols, and more so, the readiness strung through every taut muscle and limb of every bandit within, prepared to die rather than to hand him over.

She allowed the breath she’d been holding to leave her, even as her shoulders remained tense. The back of her shirt was soaked through with sweat.

No one in the cabin lowered their weapons. In Magra’s arms, Ace cooed, waving his fingers at Dadan with a toothless grin.

Her hand shook where it gripped the handle. “Looks like we’ll be laying low for a while,” she said roughly. She forgot sometimes, having mostly been dealing with Garp for the past twenty years, that the rest of the navy weren’t as likely to forgo their organisation’s creed to protect an innocent child, if that child was the son of a pirate. It didn’t matter to them that he was just a baby, like it didn't matter that his mother had never broken any laws, aside from loving his father.

Still cooing, Ace reached his arms out for her, and giggled when she gave him a bounce, the sound loosening some of the tension, although not all of it, their gazes wary where they held hers and their hands still on their weapons, in case the marines changed their minds and came back to search the place.

But she’d kept one boy safe, at least for as long as she could before the sea had taken him. She wouldn’t fail this one, or his mother. And she didn’t know what Makino was planning, but whatever it was, Dadan would do what she could to help her.

Her criminal history had faded from the records, her importance reduced to half-believed rumours as the years had gathered with crow’s feet and grey hairs. Dadan suspected even Garp had forgotten that there was a damn good reason she’d been feared, once.

She had a thought to remind them.

“Post a scout,” she said, ignoring the playful tugs at her hair as she went through her mental inventory of weapons, bouncing the baby as she hefted her axe, the same that had chopped the tree for her son’s crib but that hadn’t always been used for practical chores.

“If they come back, we’re gonna give them a proper welcome.”

―

The rain hung heavily over the shore, a thick curtain of mist sagging from the canopy of the overcast sky, darkened from the storm. Beneath it, the sea roared, vengeful, white-capped waves crashing on the jagged rocks; the same that had almost crushed them coming ashore.

The long strip of beach might have been welcoming on another day, warmed by the sun and softened with seafoam, but the wet sand was like hard-packed dirt, and no kinder than the rocks that lurked under the surface of the water. The sea was the colour of cold; a sharp, painful green.

“It’ll be weeks before we get her fit for sailing.”

Yasopp’s voice reached him over the roar where he stood, considering their ship―or what remained of her, anyway. Ben didn’t vocally agree, but his silence said what needed saying, observing her where she lay, her hull ripped out and her main mast broken.

The figurehead was missing, the stump of wood that remained jagged and splintered. It hurt to look at, but he kept his gaze level with it. He’d never shied away from ugly truths.

Yasopp dragged his fingers through his dreads, sopping from the rain. His shoulder had been bandaged, Ben noticed, the moisture in the air soaking the white gauze, but at least he wasn’t bleeding anymore. “And by then it will be too late.”

Ben still didn’t respond, only absorbed the words, and their numerous implications. He needed them all if he was going to come up with a plan.

The wound in his side throbbed, but he only spared it a moment’s consideration, enough to wonder if it was getting infected. He’d talk to Doc when he had a minute to spare; Ben wasn’t the one with the gravest injuries, or the one in most need of medical assistance.

As though he’d been thinking the same thing, “What the hell do we do?” Yasopp asked, quietly. Ben saw him glance behind them, at the others where they’d gathered, a makeshift camp scrounged together from what they’d been able to salvage from the ship. Doc was busy tending to the wounded, and some of the others had taken it upon themselves to board the ship, despite the precarious state she was in. But they needed supplies. And the aforementioned plan.

He looked down the beach, although the mist obscured his view of the island, but he didn’t need to see to know it. It was one of Shanks’, and Ben refused to cede it to Blackbeard while their captain still breathed.

“Captain first,” Ben said, fixing his gaze once again on the ship; his home for almost twenty years. “Then we fix the ship.”

“Easier said than done,” Yasopp said, although the determination that hardened his voice didn’t allow it to sound like refusal. “They’ve got him in Mariejois.”

“So we know where they have him,” Ben said, as he turned away from the ship and the sea, to make his way to where the others were gathered further inland. “That eliminates one obstacle.”

Falling into step beside him, Yasopp’s grin looked in spite of himself, as he shook his head. “Damn pragmatic as always,” he sighed over a humourless chuckle. “But I guess you’re right, although that still doesn’t begin to explain_ how _ we’re even going to get there, or rescue Cap for that matter.”

Ben was quiet, mulling over the question; the same he’d been pondering ever since the paper had arrived with the news.

He hadn’t been prepared for it. Of all the things he’d expected Teach to do, handing Shanks over to the Government hadn’t even been on the list, not when he still couldn’t conceive what Blackbeard would get in return, other than the pleasure of watching him be executed. He might be an opportunist, but he was a recklessly self-serving opportunist; he didn’t do anything if he didn’t somehow benefit from it.

Although knowing the man as he did, Ben wondered if that might be what he’d wanted after all: to see their captain humbled, the way few things could humble a man like Shanks.

But it had still caught him off guard. A rare occurrence, and he’d been trying to catch up ever since, but it was proving a challenge even for him. Ben was tempted to say their odds had never looked so bleak.

And yet in spite of all that, he hadn’t given up just yet.

“I know that look,” Yasopp said. Ben didn’t know if he sounded wary or intrigued. Probably a bit of both. “What are you thinking?”

They’d retreated under cover, one of the sails having been repurposed, strung between two palm trees where they'd bent them to make a bungalow. It was quieter here, the roar of the sea muted, although Ben didn’t need quiet to think. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in this crew or with this captain had that been the case.

They were all looking at him now, a note of familiar eagerness replacing the despair that had been hanging over them since the newspaper. Doc glanced up from where he kneeled, busy wrapping a sprained wrist.

“The Reverie is in a week,” Ben said, looking between them all; his family, minus the three most important pieces. “If they’re going to execute him, they’ll make it the main event: the cherry to top off the summit. Knowing the Celestial Dragons, the week preceding it will be filled with festivities. There’ll be many nobles attending, and people coming in that wouldn’t usually be allowed through the gates. That’s our chance.”

“You mean we sneak in?” Lucky asked, and Ben nodded.

“He will be heavily guarded, but they’ll be preoccupied with the summit. We only need to get in, and get him out.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Doc snorted, but at Ben's look, he only shrugged. “That’s not me disagreeing with the plan, I’m just trying to figure out the logistics. We’re not exactly anonymous.”

“We’re not,” Ben agreed. “But for all they know, we’re all dead.”

“A ghost crew,” Yasopp mused. “Would have made it easy to get inside the walls, at least.”

“The metaphor will be enough,” Ben said. He was twirling his wet cigarette between his fingers, organising his thoughts. “We know the layout of the city, and Pangaea Castle.”

“So a jailbreak in a city that, at least according to popular belief, can’t be sieged, during one of the most important political summits in the world?” Yasopp asked mildly.

Ben looked at him. “The fact that they think the city is impregnable is how we’ll get in. They won’t expect us to try.”

Yasopp’s grin was hard. “It’s beyond reckless. I love it.” Then, his smile taking on a chagrined edge, “I’d say Boss would approve, but after the stunt he pulled I’m not so sure. But then I’m not sure I care what he thinks about it.” He looked at the ship, and shook his head. “Still can’t believe he did that.”

“Can’t you?” Ben asked simply, with an edge that said he wasn’t the least bit surprised, although his anger was all the greater for it.

They should all be dead; that had been the price of losing. They’d all been prepared for the possibility, and no one had gone into that battle unwilling. And they had lost, but the price that had been paid for their lives had been greater than any of them would have willingly agreed to. But then Shanks hadn’t asked, which was his prerogative as captain, but that didn’t mean they had to agree with the decision.

And they weren’t the only ones who had that right.

“What do we tell Makino?”

The question was voiced in the silence ushered in by his last remark, having gone unspoken for much of the day that had passed since they’d come ashore. They’d been waiting for him to make a decision, Ben suspected; to take the lead, although this wasn’t any easier than deciding their next course of action with regard to their captain, not in a small part because the two were so tightly intertwined.

He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t used to being without answers, and it wasn’t something he readily indulged in, but recent events had rattled the status quo so thoroughly, he was still sprinting to catch up.

She would have read the paper by now, like the rest of the world. She’d made a point of keeping ahead of things, and of knowing what was going on in the New World. Ben commended her for that, for involving herself in their lives when the easiest option would have been blissful ignorance. But then none of them knew her as someone who chose the path of least resistance. If that had been the case, she wouldn’t have waited for them to begin with.

He didn’t know if she’d tried to call them. The ship was in shambles, and he hadn’t been able to locate any of their Den Den Mushi, and didn’t know if they’d escaped or gone overboard. Someone would have to search the wreck, or they’d be left effectively disconnected from the world. And even laying low, he needed to get in touch with a certain someone if they were to have any hope of pulling this off.

But Makino…

“As far as the world is concerned, we’re dead,” he began, and saw them all look at him, surprised. “Any form of contact we attempt will be a risk, and she’ll be particularly vulnerable. They can’t discover who she is.”

“So we say _ nothing_?” Yasopp spat, incredulous, and Ben heard their murmurs where they rose, holding their agreement. Only Doc was silent, seemingly focused on his task of stitching up a wound, although Ben caught the way his gaze shot towards his side, and the wound where it had bled through his shirt. He ignored it.

“We can’t just leave her in the dark,” someone said, outrage making the remark rise above their collective refusal. “She’ll have seen the paper by now. God only knows how she’s holding up, and if she thinks that _ we’re_―”

“If we call her and Sakazuki finds out, what do you think he’ll do to her?” Ben asked, and watched as his mouth snapped shut.

The suggestion had left an eerie hush over the whole crew, not dampening their anger but warping it; reforged into something calm and hard and terrible.

Yasopp ran his fingers through his sopping dreads, and spat, “Fuck.”

Ben looked out across the sea; saw her anger, the roar of the waves that felt like his own, but he couldn’t afford to feel right now. Not like that, with more than just Shanks’ life on the line. His strength was knowing the cost of their actions. He was the one who weighed the price, the impartial butcher who cut away personal feelings and bias and selfish desire in order to see what needed to be done. It didn’t mean it was always the best course of action, and Shanks had never been shy about ignoring his advice if he didn’t agree with it, but he’d always listened, and taken it into account.

Had things been different, Ben would have been the one advising against a rash action, like infiltrating the Holy Land, while Shanks would have approached it from a more subjective standpoint. And it was probably his captain’s influence, Ben suspected, that he was so recklessly inclined now to say _ fuck it _ and do what he felt like doing, rather than what was wisest.

But in going against his own better judgement, it was all the more important he had things under control. If they were doing this, they would have to be careful, or it wouldn’t just be their own lives they were risking.

He’d make _ one _call. That was all he could afford to risk, with the situation being what it was. They needed Makino safe in Fuschia, even if it meant keeping her in the dark for a few more days.

It would hurt her, but it would hurt her more if they executed Shanks, and that knowledge was what steeled his resolve now. And he was the only one who could make this decision. None of the others would have managed, but then that was why Ben held the post he did.

And Makino was the most practical person he knew. She might not forgive him for it, but she would understand why he did it.

“I promised her I’d bring him back,” Ben said, meeting their eyes, their grief and their fury. “I intend to keep it.”

Their approval was reluctant, but understanding hardened their expressions where they watched him, a new determination bolstering their resolve, despite their broken state.

He felt the weight of his new position in their gazes, hungry for confirmation, for their anger to receive some kind of outlet, in the promise of making things right. And their captain’s loss had never been felt more keenly than now, shipwrecked and with the sky coming down, and no one to quip with insufferable cheer that they hadn't brought enough parasols for this weather.

This wasn’t his forte. Shanks knew how to rally a crowd, and to keep their spirits up even in terrible situations. Ben was too practical for encouraging pep-talks, but he knew what needed to be done. That was the important thing.

“There's one call I’ll risk making,” he said, and when they looked up, surprised, he explained, “We need a ship.” He offered a glance to theirs where she sat, askew in the shallows. “One capable of getting us to the Red Port without suspicion.”

“Only a navy vessel would manage that,” someone spoke up, to a murmur of agreement. “How are we supposed to get our hands on one of those? _ Garp?”_

“Not only a navy vessel,” Ben corrected. “Just one with the right credentials.”

Yasopp looked at him, his brows furrowed, and the look in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer, even as he asked, wary―

“Why do I have the feeling you’ve got one in mind?”

―

“You want me to do_ what?_”

The Den Den Mushi’s expression revealed nothing. _"You heard me,” _ Ben said, although he’d been very careful not to say much, in case someone was listening. But at least that part had been clear. “_We need a ride.” _

“That’s not all you’re asking and we both know it,” Buggy snapped.

_ “Good,” _ Ben deadpanned. _ “Saves me the trouble of explaining it to you. I’d prepared a presentation, just in case.” _

“Oye,” Buggy warned, pointing at the Den Den Mushi, whose expression remained annoyingly blank. “You’re treading on thin ice with that cheek, Ben Beckman. You called _ me _ for help.” Righting his shoulders, he muttered, “Why do you even want my help, anyway?”

_ “You’re a Warlord,” _ Ben said, although Buggy thought the perfunctory response sounded off, as though it was the answer Ben thought he wanted and not the truth, even as the truth stood out all the clearer for it. The Den Den Mushi’s knowing look only confirmed that it was intentional._“You have the necessary credentials to get us where we need to go. And if that's not enough, you've got an uncanny amount of luck__.” _

“You don’t believe in luck.”

The Den Den Mushi looked him dead in the eye, as Ben said, _ “Right now I’m prepared to believe in just about anything.” _

Buggy shifted in his seat. The uncompromising suggestion in that statement had the hairs on his arms stand on end, but then he could have deduced that much just from the fact that Ben had called him. No one talking about breaking into the Holy Land did so if they feared losing their life in the process.

His hand shook where it gripped the receiver._ Damn it. _“Who’s to say they’d even let me near him?” he asked, and hoped Ben hadn’t caught the slight waver in his voice. “Everyone knows we used to be in the same crew.”

Ben didn’t hesitate, as though he’d already thought about that. _“Then sell them a story. You’re good at that. You’re longtime rivals. Say you want to attend his execution so you can finally watch him get what he deserves.” _

Buggy swallowed. His voice was rough when he said, “How do you know that’s not the truth?”

Ben said nothing. Somehow, that just made him angrier.

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” Buggy spat. “I’m jeopardising my whole position just thinking about helping you guys, and I’ve got a pretty nice gig going here! The hell should I care what happens to him?”

Ben still said nothing. The snail stared at him without flinching, the corners of its mouth downturned. And yet it was an infuriatingly _ knowing _ silence.

He was angry now, although didn’t know exactly at what, or who. “I don’t owe him anything!” he snapped, and his voice flung out now, not a tremble in it. His chest felt like it was about to burst. “He’s given me nothing but trouble ever since we were kids! And it’s his own damn fault he got himself captured. How the hell did they even get him?”

Ben didn’t answer, and Buggy fought to ignore the way his chest tightened, because he could guess how, if his crew was still alive.

The comparison to Captain Roger was unkind, and unavoidable. From across the table, Galdino observed him gravely, saying nothing.

It was still hard to believe. It was _ Shanks. _ Buggy had watched him slip the noose so many times, he realised belatedly just how thoroughly it had shaped the image of him as untouchable. That they should even have him seemed impossible; that he should be executed seemed even harder to believe.

And yet he remembered clearly standing in the plaza that day, thinking that any moment, their captain would slip his chains; wanting so fiercely to believe it, even as he’d already known he wouldn’t. Stubbornly, he’d held out hope to the very last second. He still remembered the sound of the crowd roaring; remembered the blades embedded in his captain’s chest, but Roger had endured it without even flinching, like it hadn’t ripped the heart right out of them all.

And it was Shanks. If their positions had been reversed, Buggy didn’t even need to wonder if he would have done the same for him.

_ “So you’ll pick us up?”_

Buggy lifted his eyes across the table to Galdino, who only raised his brows. Behind him, the rest of his crew had all gathered, looking ready to spring into action. Many were holding the morning's paper, the special edition they'd printed for Shanks' execution.

He didn’t even know what the plan was; knew only that last time there’d been no plan, and Roger had walked to his execution platform and hadn’t come back, and then Buggy had watched the same fate befall his son. And he had a habit of landing himself in tight situations by accident, relying on his luck to get him out. He didn’t usually rely on it to get him _ into _trouble.

Of course, that didn’t mean it couldn’t.

“Where are you guys?”

―

The news struck them like lightning out of clear skies.

Nami didn’t like things she couldn’t predict, even as this sea had tried its best to force her into accepting its wilful unpredictability. But it was her business to keep ahead of the weather, and the news. They were too deeply involved now to ignore how the greater changes in the world affected them, when they were often instrumental in making those changes come about.

And then there were the events they had no part in setting off but that still affected them on a personal level, some of them more deeply than others.

The newspaper lay open on the table, the pages filled with pictures of Red-Hair; a series of photographs outlining the peaks of a long life at sea, along with a breathtaking amount of criminal charges. There was no doubt from the stories the press had dug up, just why they called him Emperor. Their own achievements looked paltry in comparison, but then Red-Hair had been a pirate for longer than most of them had been alive.

_Singlehandedly Defeats Navy Fleet, _read one headline. He’d been nineteen. There’d been over a thousand marines in that fleet.

_Red-Hair’s Rise to Emperor. Pirate King next? _read another. That one was from six years ago, but the story outlined in the article below warranted the title, Nami thought. The photo accompanying it was hard to reconcile with the man Luffy had told them about; the one who’d allow himself to be publicly ridiculed, if only to keep the peace.

And there was a picture from the war. He’d forced them to call off the battle. She remembered the newspapers speculating in the aftermath if Sengoku’s decision to call a ceasefire had really been due to the threat of Red-Hair’s power bolstering the enemy forces, or because he personally respected the man. Both judgements had been equally harsh for the former Fleet Admiral. The public had seen it as a sign of weakness that they should bend to the will of a pirate, regardless of the reason. And even if it had been the latter, there was no denying the truth of the first, and that Red-Hair was terrifyingly powerful.

It was a feat wrapping her mind around them even keeping someone like that locked up.

The photograph of him from Marineford was given prominence, no doubt given the significance of the event. He didn’t look as terrifying as he did in the one above it, his sword unsheathed and his crew at his back, although the focus was on Red-Hair.

He was handsome, she thought, her gaze fleeting to some of the other pictures, among them the one that showed him smiling, fiercely attractive almost to the point of disbelief with his hair pulled back from his face, his laugh-lines etched deep, which suggested he smiled a lot. His eyes were on the camera, although it looked like a candid shot; as though he’d caught the camera’s gaze just before it was taken, the look seeming to invite the reader to join him for a drink, singling them out personally.

It wasn’t hard to see why he’d garnered so much popularity. And even serious, he didn’t look like the monster depicted in some of the articles, although given her own captain, Nami knew well that strength had little to with appearance.

She glanced at Luffy, pacing the galley like it was keeping him trapped. He’d gotten out of his seat three times since he’d first sat down, indecisive in a way Nami had never witnessed from someone who made split-second decisions without hesitating. She didn’t think he’d slept at all, the long night that had passed since the first newspaper had arrived with the announcement.

Her heart hurt, recognising how he had to be feeling. Blackbeard had handed Ace over to the Government, and now Red-Hair; the similarities were unavoidable. She couldn’t even begin to guess at his motivation this time, but knowing Blackbeard, maybe calamity was the only motivation he needed.

No one had spoken in a while. Nami didn’t know what to say, if there was anything she could say that would help, and that wasn’t just empty platitudes. She couldn’t assure him that Red-Hair would escape, or that his crew would rescue him at the last minute. How could she say that, when one of the greatest fleets in the world hadn’t been enough to save his brother?

“I want to do something,” Luffy said then. They were all looking at him, but he had his gaze fixed on the open newspaper, and the pictures of Red-Hair where they filled the pages. “But I don’t want―” He stopped. She saw the despair in his eyes, and how he fought with himself, his knee-jerk instinct to simply act struggling against the hard knowledge that the war had hammered into him, articulated most clearly in the hard press of his mouth, and his white-knuckled hands, even as he said, roughly, “Last time, I went there and it didn’t change anything. Everyone came and Ace still―”

He didn’t say it, but Nami understood intimately the unwillingness to put death into words. One thing was accepting it had happened; it was something else to willingly invoke it.

Luffy didn’t say anything else, but what went unspoken didn’t need words to be felt. And they all remembered their own helplessness, the last time this had happened. They hadn’t been able to help him then, or even to be there for him in the aftermath, and it sat between them now, in their exchanged looks; a failure that had been out of their hands, even as Nami knew she wasn’t the only one who carried the blame, regardless of the fact that Luffy had never asked them to.

“Whatever Luffy wants to do,” Zoro said then, breaking the uneasy lull as he crossed his arms over his chest, “I’m in.”

Nods from around the table, and she saw Luffy’s expression trembling, a gratitude so fierce he seemed without the words to voice it, but then that only served to confirm their fealty. He hadn’t assumed they’d be on board, for all that he had every right to believe they would.

But their willingness to follow him didn’t change the fact that they had no plan.

“They’re holding him in Mariejois,” Robin said, voicing Nami’s own thoughts. “If we mean to stage a rescue, it will mean getting access to the Holy Land.” She met her gaze. “I suspect that’s where they’ll be holding his execution. The Reverie will provide them with the opportunity.”

Nami pondered this, fiddling with a coin left on the table, allowing it to dance across her knuckles before making it disappear.

They didn’t have the numbers to lay siege to Mariejois. Not even if they rallied their whole fleet were they guaranteed the force it would take to breach the walls, let alone rescue Red-Hair. It wouldn’t even be a battle at sea, with Mariejois’ location atop the Red Line, which greatly reduced the advantage a fleet of ships would have provided them. They’d have to scale the Red Line, and then the walls of the city, just to get inside.

It was a daunting prospect, and her chest felt hollow as she considered all the possible contingencies, every strategy she went over hitting a rock wall even before they’d gotten to the actual walls of the city.

The coin danced over her knuckles, before she flipped it, closing her fist around it. Opening her palm, it was gone, disappeared without a trace, and her breath caught softly as an idea struck.

“We’re going about it the wrong way."

They all looked at her, Luffy’s gaze latching onto hers, but Nami only met it calmly. “We’re trying to figure out how to fight our way in. But what if we don’t? What if we got in without anyone noticing? I was a burglar before I was a pirate. And a good one, too.”

“There’s a bit more to this than breaking and entering,” Zoro said, although she noticed that he didn’t sound opposed to the idea.

“Maybe,” Nami said. “But the essence is the same. We need to get in without being caught, collect something without being seen, and get out again, preferably without causing an incident of massive, world-altering proportions.”

“We’re more than just one person, though,” Usopp said. “You used to work alone, but how are we _ all _supposed to sneak in?”

“That's just it. We’re not sneaking in,” Nami said. Her mind was churning, but she was in control of these waves. “We’re going to walk through the front gates.”

They all stared at her, wide-eyed. Even Robin looked caught off guard.

Luffy was watching her, hope having filled his eyes now, even as she hadn’t yet laid out her strategy. And she still wasn’t used to that; to have someone look at her, fully and wholly convinced that she could pull off something of that magnitude without even hearing the requirements. He just believed she could.

“It’s risky,” she said. A redundant statement, maybe, when their whole way of life was a risk, but it seemed imperative that she emphasise just how dangerous this would be. “There’s a lot that could go wrong.” On top of careful planning, it would take an enormous amount of blind luck just to see them safely through the gates, and that was no guarantee they’d get out again, with or without Red-Hair.

Luffy clenched his hands together. And the sea had changed him, Nami saw, in his calmer consideration now. Two years ago he would have jumped in headfirst, content to ask questions later, and to cross whatever bridges he needed when he got to them. But he’d been through his before. He knew how high the stakes were, and how great the loss, if they failed.

Watching him, Nami remembered the stories he’d told her―of the pirate who’d given him his straw hat, and who might have been nothing more than an inspiring visitor if not for the things he’d let slip that had painted a rather different picture: of a man who’d been generous with his time and his kindness, indulging a little boy who’d had few others in his life.

Nami didn’t have a father, but she had the closest thing to one. And that was what mattered, and more than blood.

Luffy looked at her. “Not him,” he said, and the crack in his voice broke her heart. “Not again. I can't.” Taking them all in, the expression on his face now was acutely vulnerable, but then he’d never shied away from showing what he felt. “Is it okay that we go?”

Her expression softened. “He means a lot to you,” Nami said simply, but then that truth was painfully simple. “Do you even have to ask us that?”

Their agreement was quick to follow, no hesitation from either of them in offering it. And Luffy’s silence said more than whatever verbal gratitude a different captain might have given in return, but then he always spoke the loudest with his actions.

“Break an Emperor out of jail, from the most heavily guarded city in the world, when all eyes are on the Reverie,” Zoro said, looking at Luffy. “It’s your call, Captain.”

Luffy's expression hardened, familiar determination furrowing his brow now. “I want to save him.”

“This will be interesting,” Robin mused, smiling, and then with a glance at Brook, “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Ah! I was about to say that!”

“Speaking of bones,” Chopper spoke up, pointing to Brook. “How are we getting _ him _ through the gates?”

“Yeah, I’m guessing you have a plan, nee-chan?” Franky asked. He looked around the table, pausing at Chopper and Brook, and then Luffy. “Walking through the front door sounds all fine and dandy, but they know our faces. We’re not a no-name crew anymore.”

“Something of an understatement, given recent events,” Sanji sighed, tapping his cigarette over the ashtray as he threw a glance in Luffy's direction. And he was right; Luffy wasn’t just a rookie anymore. They called him Emperor now, likening him with Red-Hair, and Kaidou. And even before that, he’d made himself an enemy of the World Government, and the Celestial Dragons. All of that taken into consideration, on top of the logistics of getting in, it sounded impossible.

But they’d done the impossible before.

She glanced at Usopp, who’d been unusually quiet. He was looking at the newspaper, his eyes far away. “You okay?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m worried about my dad. It doesn’t say anything about Red-Hair’s crew.”

Nami pressed her lips together. She’d considered the same thing. “They would have said something if they had them, or if they knew for sure that they were dead. Which means they don’t know.”

It wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was all she had to offer him, when none of them knew the fate of the Red-Hair Pirates.

For a long beat, Usopp said nothing, his gaze fixed firmly on the newspaper, before he lifted his eyes to Luffy. “Dad would want to do something.”

Luffy nodded in agreement; a sharp, decisive gesture. And he looked different now, still resolute, but Nami was glad to see a flash of familiar impatience in his eyes. And even changed, this was the captain she knew; the one who knew the risks involved but still chose to act, not because their victory was guaranteed, but because it was something he believed in.

His voice didn’t waver now when he said, “I don’t want to fail this time.”

Nami met his eyes. And she couldn’t promise they’d succeed, but that didn’t diminish the significance of what she did say. “You’ve got us with you this time.”

Their agreement was silent, found in their smiles where they looked at him, but from the way his expression trembled, it was by no means ambiguous.

“So,” Nami said, taking them all in. “First things first: we need a way in. Luckily for us, they’re currently accepting visitors. All we need is an invitation to the Reverie.”

Usopp’s look was doubtful. “I don’t think they send out written invitations. And don’t you have to be from a noble family to even be invited?”

Nami smiled, and chirped, “Exactly.”

Dubious, Usopp's gaze shifted between them all. “I hate to break it to you, but none of us are nobles. And I don’t think pretending to be will convince them to let us in.”

“No, but being part of a royal retinue might.”

They all looked at her, frowning. Only Robin was smiling, seeming to have caught on. Franky and Brook shared a look of confusion, but Nami didn’t blame them for being out of the loop. After all, they hadn't yet had the chance to meet her.

She looked at Luffy. “Royals don’t travel alone. They need guards,” she said, her gaze darting between him and Zoro, “advisers,” Robin and Usopp, “a retainer,” Franky, “a personal physician,” Chopper, “a court musician,” Brook, before she skipped over Sanji, wearing an eager grin now as he’d caught on to where she was going, and before he could suggest something along the lines of _ prince consort_, Nami gestured to herself, “and a trusted lady-in-waiting.”

Meeting Luffy’s eyes, she grinned; her treasure-smile, as she spared an idle thought to the Mariejois treasury and what might be in it, and said,

“The future Queen of Alabasta wouldn’t attend with anything less.”

―

The shadows were in attendance, the permanent members of his solitary court having invited themselves, as always, the torchlight sending them dancing, a cheerful jig to the howling of the wind against the walls. A fire roared in the hearth, warming the red velvet draperies. Mihawk didn't know when she'd put them up, but conceded that they'd been an improvement.

Flicking his eyes up, he considered the great hall, his castle empty now with both his lodgers gone. For all that he’d spent the past two years longing for some peace and quiet, now that he had it, he couldn’t help but wonder what had been so appealing about it.

His gaze dropped back to the newspaper in his lap, and the photographs, pausing on one of the earliest in the timeline. Red-Hair was twenty, or just about, pictured posing next to his startlingly dark-haired first mate, although Mihawk noted, a touch dryly, that if the photographer had gotten a wider shot, he would have been in it, too.

The extensive photo reel was excessive, and the idiot might have been delighted had the circumstances been different. Shanks had always loved the spotlight, although Mihawk wondered if it might not have loved him more. The sheer number of photographs certainly gave credence to the rumour that the media favoured him, although how much that favour was worth was up for debate, given their reckless profiteering now that he was on his way to the gallows.

His brow furrowed, he considered the headline where it leapt off the page. It wasn’t like Red-Hair to get himself captured, and even less like him to remain in captivity. He’d considered a fatal injury being the cause, and that it wouldn’t be many days before the paper would announce him escaped. Although even as he tried to convince himself of that, he couldn’t help the sense that something felt off about it.

His gaze drifted towards the glass of wine at his elbow. The bottle had been a gift; the best in her humble cellar, a vintage even older than she was, and offered for no other reason than because he’d stopped by to check on her, although Mihawk had never admitted to that being the case. But even knowing better, Makino had let him get away with it.

He thought about her, those entirely guileless eyes and that quiet humour, and the companionship that hadn’t made any demands of him. There were few in his acquaintance, and none who’d known him as short a while as she had, who could look him in the eye and see what the rest of the world didn’t.

She would be upset. He was surprised by how much the thought bothered him.

Glancing at the newspaper again had his fingers twitching, and a sigh gusting free of him. Red-Hair would never let him live it down if he came to his rescue. He would have to be discreet.

Shaking his head, he scoffed, although wasn’t sure exactly for whose sake, “Fool.”

And downing his glass, unwilling to let her gift go to waste, he made to depart.

―

She was given a cabin―a snug compartment belowdecks apart from the crew's quarters, but the offered privacy was the greatest blessing, as Makino didn’t think she could have found it in herself to sleep, even though she hadn’t slept a wink in over twenty-four hours.

These hours crawled by even slower. She’d left Goa in the morning, and it had to be nearing evening now, but there were no portholes in her cabin to give her an indication of what time of day it was, or how far they were from their destination. The captain had promised to call on her when they reached Orange Town, which left her with nothing to do but bide her time, which had never before been a problem, but on an unfamiliar ship and without anything to put her hands to, having no sailing experience, that was easier said than done.

Restless, she paced the small compartment, her thoughts circling, from their son to Shanks and back again; to the others, where they were and if they were alive, to Dadan and Garp, and Sabo, wondering if he’d be there when she arrived, and what she would do if he wasn’t. Would the navy expand their search if they couldn’t find her on Dawn?

_ Hopefully, I’ll get there before you_, Sabo had told her during their call. He’d been with the East Blue branch of the Revolutionary Army, although hadn’t said why or what they were doing, but then Makino knew better than most the importance of keeping certain things under wraps. After what had happened to Baltigo, she wasn’t surprised they were laying low, and aside from a brief call to let Dadan know he was okay, she hadn’t heard from Sabo since his visit two years ago.

She would have to hope he’d be there to meet her. She had no idea what to do in an unfamiliar port, least of all now that she knew they were looking for her.

She tried to keep her panic under control, but the fiercely practical part of her wanted to plan ahead, which required a careful balancing of thinking about everything without thinking about it _ too _ hard, because if she did―if she started worrying that they’d find her son and take him, or that her crew might be lost to her forever, or that they might go through with Shanks’ execution before she could reach Mariejois, not to mention how she even planned to save him―Makino didn’t know if she’d make it out of East Blue.

She listened to the voices in the galley, frowning as she caught the rising volume, although it wasn’t the cheerful tones of a celebration. Instead it sounded like they were arguing, an impression further heightened by the sense of rising agitation, like a prickling at the back of her mind. Her palms felt clammy where she’d bunched them in her skirt.

Unease crawled under her skin, wondering if it might have something to do with her, but if there was a problem, she didn’t want to hide away in her cabin and hope it resolved itself, and so making sure she was decent, even as she left her hair loose where it tumbled down her back, her kerchief discarded, she left the cabin.

Climbing up the ladder from belowdecks, her apprehension grew with the sound of their voices, a single man’s timbre heard through the bulkheads, but she didn’t let it deter her, her chin raised as she reached the door.

Entering the galley found every occupant within turning towards her, and she started, taken aback by their aggression as she found the crew in what looked like a stand-off, all of them against a single man, who stood with his arms crossed in the middle of the compartment.

She wasn’t prepared for the sudden recognition, as familiar eyes went to hers, even as it had been well over two years since she’d seen him, the day before her wedding.

“Touya,” she blurted, so surprised she couldn’t have helped it, and she knew her expression revealed it.

His own didn’t change, and didn’t show what he felt. “Makino,” he said, without inflection. “We were just talking about you.”

He hadn’t changed much, she saw, his features still the same, boyishly handsome, and his dark hair cropped short. The only real difference was that he’d grown a beard, or at least made an attempt, the thin scruff making him look a bit unkempt.

But his eyes were different, colder than she remembered where he took her in now, what might have been an entirely perfunctory sweep of his gaze, if it hadn’t lingered on her longer hair, and her face.

Dragging his eyes from hers, he fixed his gaze on Leodes, and she hadn’t expected him to be happy to see her after how they’d parted, but she wasn’t prepared for what he proceeded to say. “As I was saying. We’re handing her over.”

Her mouth parted, and Makino was so shocked by the calm announcement she couldn’t even manage a reply.

Leodes stepped in front of her. “And like I already told you, we’re not handing her over to anyone. She is a welcome guest aboard my ship.”

Voices of assent followed from the crew around him, but Touya didn’t budge.

“She’s wanted by the marines,” he said, his gaze on her now, although the words seemed directed at the crew. “By harbouring her, we’re making ourselves accessories to her crimes.”

“Touya,” one of the others said, looking from him to Makino. “Listen to yourself. Why would the marines want her?”

More murmurs of agreement. They were all watching her now, as though trying to connect the sight of her to what he was telling them. Their expressions revealed what they were all thinking, but then Makino didn’t blame them.

“Has she told you who she is?” Touya asked then, and her lips firmed, knowing already what was coming. He was looking at her as he said, “That she’s Red-Hair's wife?”

The whole galley went quiet, and the ones who didn’t already know her looked at her, shocked. Only a handful didn’t show surprise, standing by their captain, who regarded the rising dissent with a downturned mouth.

“They were looking for her in Goa,” Touya continued. He met her eyes; saw the betrayal in them, which she didn’t bother trying to hide. But he didn’t look away, although it took effort to hold her gaze, Makino saw now, before he’d reined his conviction back in. “Keeping her aboard puts us all at risk, and I don’t want to be punished for harbouring a pirate when I didn’t consent to bringing her along in the first place.”

_ Pirate_. The word was deliberate, harking back to the last time they’d spoken, when she’d practically declared herself as such.

Seeing that she’d caught on, “You made your choice,” he told her. He didn’t have to elaborate; the naked distaste on his face said just what that choice had entailed.

His gaze darted to her hand, but he wouldn’t find her wedding ring there. And she wondered then just how much he knew; if he'd heard about their son, and if that had simply confirmed the fate he'd laid out for her that day.

He looked her in the eyes now, a callousness about him she wondered if he'd always had, and she simply hadn't seen as he said, “I don’t see why we should suffer for it.”

Makino folded her lips, and didn’t cower before the accusation. He meant to throw her own choice back in her face, but she wouldn’t apologise for making it now any more than she would have two years ago.

Turning to Leodes, her tone was mild, deliberately deferential as she told him calmly, “I don’t want to compromise you, or your crew.” Then with her glare levelled at Touya, said, “Drop me off at the nearest port, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

She heard the captain’s protest. “Makino-san―”

“You think they’ll care?” Touya cut him off. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, the silent show of authority compelling her to drop her gaze, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. “They’ll figure out whose ship you left Goa on. We’ve already been compromised.”

Leodes stepped towards him, angry now as he spat, “What are you suggesting?”

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “What I've been saying since the beginning: we hand her over. They’ll bring her into custody, and then let her go once Red-Hair's been executed, but at least it’ll absolve us of any connection to him.”

He fairly spat the words, as though just an association with Shanks made him furious.

Some of the others were looking at her, but Makino sensed the biggest difference in how they saw her in their presences. She hadn’t been a threat before. Now, Touya had made her one.

“They won’t hurt her,” he said then, the words levelled at the most reluctant of the crew, some of whom she’d served before, but most of whom she didn’t know. And Makino saw then that he believed it, and wondered, so outraged she couldn’t even speak, if what he really wanted was to teach her a lesson; as though a few weeks spent in the navy’s custody might make her regret her own choices, and Shanks. That he’d be proven right.

Leodes put himself in front of her. “This is my ship. She’s not going anywhere.”

Touya looked at the crew, before meeting her gaze calmly. “Then I guess this is a mutiny.”

Her breath caught, but before she could properly react, he’d moved towards her, the ones who’d decided to join him springing into action, and suddenly they were all drawing their weapons, those who weren’t armed brandishing their bare hands, the whole galley erupting as they leaped at each other.

She staggered back, nearly stumbling over her own feet in her scramble to get out of the way. Her hip connected sharply with one of the tables, pulling a hiss through her teeth as she narrowly missed a hand reaching for her, unable to tell if it had meant to grab her or steady her. Someone shoved into her roughly, forcing her further back, just as one of the others jumped onto the table, knocking over the lamp that had been sitting on it, only for it to shatter on the planks, the flames catching the oil before hungrily reaching for any piece of nearby wood.

The heat knocked against her, and she could barely discern anything through the fighting and the flames, her heart racing so fast it was painful, although she felt too shocked for her panic to get a proper foothold, unable to conceive how it had come to this, but it wasn’t long before it had her, although the cause wasn’t the fighting crew.

In the chaos, she’d failed to pick up on what was happening outside the ship, only sensing it a split second before the door to the galley was ripped open, and more people poured inside, and it was hard to say if her confusion was greater than her distress, but she wasn’t given the chance to decide, as the whole galley turned to the intruders.

Her first thought was that they were marines; that they’d followed her out of Goa after all, or that Touya had somehow managed to contact them with their location, but she was quick to dismiss that thought, unable to discern a single uniform through the crowd now filling the galley, the roar of their voices where they threw themselves at the crew. Were they pirates?

Makino thought she might have laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified. To think that after all this time spent living so far removed from the dangers of the sea, her very first voyage should see her ship boarded by a random crew of pirates. Even though the number of active pirates in East Blue had grown exponentially since the war, she’d been too caught up in where she was going to consider the very real dangers that might keep her from even getting there; that there were crews sailing these waters that were different from the one she called her own, and that they posed just as big of a threat to her as the navy did.

The fear that found her now wasn’t a new one, growing up as the sole proprietor of a tavern, and a woman living alone. It was one she hadn’t had time to consider with everything else that had happened, but she felt it now, recognising her vulnerable position and knowing well what usually happened to women seized in pirate raids.

She had to get out. She didn’t know what she even planned to do, if she meant to jump overboard and swim, all she knew was that she refused to let herself get caught, anger overtaking her fear now as she thought of why she’d even left Dawn in the first place. She couldn’t fail him here, like this.

She was getting _ out. _

Determined, she kept close to the back of the compartment, searching for a way through the throng without being discovered. But there was no clear way across the galley, her path blocked by the fighting crews. Someone had put out the fire, but it was complete pandemonium; she couldn’t even tell who was fighting who, the dividing lines between friend and foe blurred, until all that was left was chaos and aggression, their feelings shoving against her senses from all sides, like their voices where they’d raised, a continuing roar, their weapons clashing jarringly and the sound of glass and wood shattering making her flinch in pain.

Her blood pounded against her temples as everything slowed down, her breaths cutting her lungs sharply, until they were the only sounds she could hear as she backed away from the fighting until she was pressed up against the bulkhead.

She thought she was about to throw up, the riot of sensations making her dizzy, too many _ feelings_, rage and delight and bloodlust, and pain, all of it blending together, but the worst was her own guilt, recognising that she was the cause; the reason it had turned out like this. Her skin felt flushed, so hot Makino thought for a moment that she was about to faint.

She felt_ too much_.

Her eyes found Touya’s through the crowd, and she knew what he meant to do even before he made for her, shoving through the fighting before jumping over an upturned bench.

He’d reached her in three strides, his hand clamping around her upper arm, jerking her towards him even as she fought to get out of his grip, panic overtaking her now as he pulled her to him, and then fury, wanting him off her, his breath hot against her neck and his grip on her arm hurting, although worse than his hands on her was his feelings, stronger up close, almost overpowering, clogging her nose and her throat like she was choking on them, until they drowned out the galley around them. She felt his frustration, and through it, his triumph, sharpened by justification, although stronger than all of them was the desire for her that hit her like a punch, that had a different kind of fear bubbling up within her, sensing the undercurrent of righteous entitlement as he held her to him.

She acted without thinking.

She didn’t know what she did, only that she did _ something,_ but unlike that moment in the plaza that morning where she’d withdrawn within herself, this time it was like she reached outside of herself, once more like water. Intangible―_powerful_, as though there was nothing that could keep her, or rather, that nothing could be kept _from_ her, like she could reach into even the smallest fissures of his presence.

She looked into his face, looked past it somehow, seeing with eyes that felt like they saw from within. And she didn’t know what she was looking for, but she found it. Like an exposed wire, it stared her in the face, peering out from somewhere behind his now wide-sprung eyes where he stood in the black void with her, the galley around them vanished, as though it had ceased existing.

She looked and him and saw. And she didn’t know how she knew, but she felt suddenly certain that she knew this man’s greatest weakness; as though she could reach right into his mind and put the tip of her finger on it.

Acting on that instinct, Makino reached out, and felt Touya reacting now, his hand throwing her off him as he scrambled away from her, falling over his feet into the still water where it submerged her ankles.

In a blink, she was back in her own body, the galley crashing in around her, only to find him staring up at her from where he sat on his ass, having fallen over the upturned bench. And she didn’t know what she’d done other than prod at that thread, that sliver of weakness in his outward composure, but meeting his eyes, Makino saw that he knew she’d done something; that she’d looked at him and _ seen_, an observation that missed nothing.

The fighting was still going on, but she felt curiously calm, standing at the heart of the chaos, her own quiet where it beat in her chest.

“What did you _do_?” he breathed, furious, although the fear in his voice was evident.

Makino didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Anger warped his expression then, and before she could react he’d surged to his feet, reaching for her―

Then Sabo was there, having materialised seemingly out of nowhere, the fact barely registering before his grin did, flashing under the wide brim of his hat.

“Hey!” he chirped, then drove his closed fist right into Touya’s jaw. He went down like a tree, right over the upturned bench and onto the planks, clean out cold.

Flexing his fingers, Sabo brushed his gloved hand on the lapel of his coat, and pushing his top hat back into place, he looked at Makino, as though the whole galley hadn't been upturned, and the crew weren't still fighting. “Ready to go? We’ve got the ship standing by.”

Still reeling from the abrupt turn of events, it took her a second to catch up, but Makino felt herself nodding. Her whole body was tense, like it hurt just keeping it from coming apart.

She saw Sabo glance across the galley, where Koala was holding a man twice her size by the jaw, before casually tossing him over one of the tables. And Makino saw now that the people who’d boarded them were holding the crew at gunpoint, others in deadlocks.

Sweeping his gaze over the galley’s occupants, or at least the ones who were still conscious, “We were never here,” Sabo announced cheerfully. He toed Touya’s unconscious body with his boot, before directing his next words to Leodes. “Might want to keep this guy from flapping his gums. Think you can do that?”

The captain looked rumpled from the scuffle, a cut in his shoulder bleeding where a blade had sliced through the sleeve of his coat, but he was otherwise calm. He also looked like he didn’t know what to think, but with a glance at Makino, he nodded. “You’ll make sure she’s safe?” he asked Sabo.

Sabo grinned, and shot her a look, but Makino only met it. She hadn’t shared her plans with anyone else, but wasn’t about to apologise for them. “Oh, I don’t know about _ safe_,” he said, before his smile softened, and he nodded to the captain. “But I’ll protect her.”

Leodes looked like he wasn’t sure what to think of that, but meeting Makino’s eyes, she nodded, and saw him sheathe his rapier back into his cane. “You were never here,” he told Sabo, before addressing the remaining crew, “Did any of you see anything?”

They all shook their heads. One of them said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain.”

“Been an uneventful evening if you ask me,” said another, meeting Makino’s gaze with a grin. One of the older members, and she was surprised to discover that she recognised him. He’d been a regular back when her mother had been Party’s proprietor, when she’d been a girl.

Taking in his wide grin, she had the sudden impression that he knew she was doing more than just escaping, but he didn’t let her secret slip, only looked delighted by it.

Gratitude swelled in her chest, although she couldn’t find her voice to articulate it, but before she could try, Sabo touched her elbow, nodding for them to go.

“Come on,” he said, and in that moment Makino was glad it was him, because she didn’t know if she could have followed any of his compatriots, had they been sent to get her. She didn’t know how they’d even found her, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to get off this ship. And maybe throw up.

It was pitch black as they walked out on deck, a single lantern lit by the prow, its reflection cast over the water. With the sky overcast and no moon to light their course, it was the only thing that told her the sea had a surface; without it, it would have seemed as though the ship was floating in darkness.

She listened to the water where it pushed against the hull, the sloughing caress causing the timbers to creak gently, the sound eerily loud in the utter stillness of the night.

Another ship had drawn up alongside theirs. It was bigger, and there were no lanterns lit on deck to show her any defining characteristics, an entirely nameless shadow, and so quiet she might have thought it abandoned if she hadn’t also been certain there were people aboard, her senses alerting her to more than just a small group.

A ladder had been dropped own from the railing above, and seeing it was what finally shook her loose of the shock, realising what she was about to do.

“Sabo,” she said, just as he reached to tug at it, as though to test that it was securely fastened. But when he looked at her, Makino didn’t know what she’d meant to say.

Sabo only smiled. He didn’t look much different than he had two years ago, his hair a little longer, pulled back at his nape under his top hat. “You know," he told her, "I’m impressed. I’ve always been called a troublemaker, but at least I’m always trying. You're a natural, Ma-chan.”

Koala punched him in the arm, having materialised at his side. “_Not _what she needs to hear.”

Rubbing his shoulder, Sabo pouted. “But I meant it as a compliment!”

She shook her head, and ignored his sheepish grin, although Makino found their good-natured bickering curiously comforting, allowing her to come back to herself, down from the strange high left from the fight.

Meeting her look, “Have you got everything you need?” Koala asked her.

Makino cast a glance towards the deckhouse. Everything she’d brought with her was in her duffle, left in her cabin belowdecks, but none of those things seemed important enough to warrant turning back. She had Shanks’ vivre card, and her wedding ring.

“Don’t worry about a change of clothes,” Koala added. “We’ve got you covered.”

“Got a gown made to fit,” Sabo chirped, and at the look she shot him, “What? We’re not going in dressed like commoners. They'd stop us at the door.”

“She hasn’t accepted yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Sabo just shrugged. “I’m not. I just know what she’ll say.”

Frowning, Makino looked between them. “What haven’t I accepted?”

Koala only smiled, which might have been encouraging coming from the girl whose sensible nature seemed to anchor some of Sabo’s recklessness, except the gleam in her eyes now looked just as incriminating as her partner’s. “We’ll fill you in,” she promised. “First, let’s get you inside. There’s a hot meal if you’re hungry.”

Makino looked down at herself, still in the clothes she’d left Fuschia wearing, a little rumpled from a long and arduous day, her skirt and bodice and the soft sleeves of her blouse standing out amidst the people around her where they moved to board the ship, the crew in the galley apparently dealt with. They were dressed more practically, in fighting leathers and combat gear. Well, most of them. Sabo still insisted on a vest and necktie.

She looked like what she was: a barmaid, although the thought didn’t make her quail, as she’d thought it might. But then she wasn’t under any misconceptions that she was anything else. She'd accepted who she was before she’d even decided to do this.

Lifting her gaze back to Koala’s, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t know if it was courage or fear that commanded her movements, but when Sabo held out his hand to help her climb the ladder, she let him, struggling to see through the dark and where to put her feet, although the path ahead felt even less clear. And she might have thought she was moving on instinct, but as her feet touched the deck of the new ship, Makino found that wasn’t the case.

Because even if she couldn’t see the path she was on, or what it would mean for her to follow it, stepping aboard the unknown vessel, carrying nothing but the clothes on her back and Shanks’ vivre card, it was with the entirely calm conviction that she was going to walk it to the end. It wasn’t instinct when it was a choice.

And she had already made it.

―

A small hand touched his cheek, the gently calloused palm cool against his fever-warm skin. He heard the rustling of her skirt, the outline of her small frame taking shape through the dark where she’d sunk to her knees before him, so close he could feel the warmth coming off her body.

The soft lilt of her voice reached him, the kindest sound he could imagine after two days with nothing but his own breathing and the rattling of his chains, but he heard how it broke over the words.

_ What have they done to you? _

His head shot up, his eyes flying open only to find the space before him empty, nothing there but the dried bloodstain on the stones.

She wasn’t there, and with his heart coming back down, Shanks didn’t know if it was disappointment or relief that filled the space left by her loss, but refused to let the first get comfortable. However much he would have given to see her again, he would have given more still to ensure it was never here, in this place.

Closing his eyes, he allowed his head to fall forward, too heavy for him to hold up. His whole body felt sluggish as his mind dragged itself out of sleep, if it could even be called sleep, the exhausted state that saw him jerking awake every hour. There was no rest for him when he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

She would have heard the news by now, and Shanks wondered how she’d taken it. He didn’t know how the papers were reporting on it, but even if they hadn’t made the decision to execute him yet, they’d milk the event for all it was worth.

And she would read them. He knew that as surely as he knew Makino, too practically inclined to wilfully keep herself in the dark. She’d want to be informed, even if it hurt her to know, and the regret wasn’t kind, remembering her worry, and thinking back on the times he’d assured her he’d be fine; that he wouldn’t get caught. That he’d come home, like he’d promised.

But he couldn’t imagine that it would break her. Not the strongest person he knew, the most stubbornly enduring, although the affection he felt thinking about her wavered under the crushing weight of the fear Akainu’s conversation had left him with.

He hoped she was safe, and that they wouldn’t touch her as long as he cooperated, but even wishing that it was the case, he couldn’t stop thinking about Akainu’s threat, and knowing the man as he did, Shanks couldn’t imagine he’d just leave her be in Fuschia. Which meant they might have taken her somewhere else. New Marineford?

Imagining the possibility that she was as close as that made it hard to keep still; to let the chains weigh him down instead of ripping them off, and go to wherever they were holding her. He could have, Shanks thought. With the prospect of her in New Marineford, he was sure of it.

But he couldn’t take the risk, not unless he knew that she was safe, and not in the navy’s custody. If the others had survived, they might have gone back for her, but he couldn’t risk her life by breaking himself out without knowing. If he did, and Akainu had her…

Had it been Sengoku, things would have been different. The former Fleet Admiral wouldn’t have harmed her, or even have threatened to do it, but Akainu was different. His concept of absolute justice didn’t allow for compassion, or even a wavering conscience, even for her, who’d never broken a single law in her life. But by marrying him, Makino had made her choice of where she stood in terms of the law, and Akainu wouldn’t show her mercy any more than he’d show it to a pirate with a criminal record.

And this was what he’d feared, ever since he’d gone back to her; that his actions would end up condemning her, and for no other reason than for being his wife. He’d long since accepted the consequences of his way of life, and wouldn’t have asked the World Government for forgiveness for his own actions, but Makino was different, was blameless, and he couldn’t beg her forgiveness now, for putting her in danger.

The anger didn’t feel good, but it felt filling, and the_ roar _ that left him as he yanked at the chains echoed through the great chamber and the corridors beyond. But pulling at the chains did nothing when he knew they weren’t what was holding him, and he could have endured the indignity for his own sake, but the thought of what they might to do her was the most crippling fear, recognising that he could do nothing to protect her. That the only way he could keep her safe was to do _ nothing_. All he could do was hope that they hadn't hurt her, and that whatever happened to him, they would let her go once it was over.

And that even if it meant he’d never get to see her again, she’d be as far away from Mariejois as possible.

―

They brought her into the galley, the revolutionaries who’d boarded the ship with Sabo retaking their seats and accepting refills of beer and stew, as though the night’s events had barely disrupted their supper.

"Sabo!" called a voice, waving him over to one of the long tables. "What, no black eye? Should've placed my bets differently. Last time you came back with _two_."

Sabo just grinned; the picture of mischief. "Does it count if I was the one serving it?"

Laughter warmed the air, as someone handed him a tankard. For her part, Makino remained close to the door, observing as Sabo greeted those who’d remained inside during the boarding, laughing off the teasing suggestion of exaggeration, but even his good mood and friendly camaraderie couldn’t ease the tight grip of her shoulders, or allow her to get comfortable.

The door closed behind her, and a sudden hush rushed over the compartment as every head turned to look in her direction, some of the galley’s occupants moving out of the way, which gave her a clear path to the person standing on the other end.

She’d seen Dragon only once in person, the day Sabo had visited with Koala. He looked taller up close, the hard panes of his face yielding none of his thoughts where he regarded her calmly. The others had all taken their seats; they were the only ones still standing.

“Makino-san,” he greeted her. He had a deep voice, but like his features, it surrendered nothing of what he thought.

The sweep of his hand indicated the table in front of him. “Please, have a seat.”

She hesitated. He’d voiced it as a suggestion, as though merely offering her the chance to sit down and catch her breath, but the commanding weight of his presence and his straight-backed posture made it feel like an order.

He was like Shanks, she thought, although unlike her husband, the air of authority that surrounded Dragon was compelling for a different reason. And even unsure if she should do what he said, she couldn’t escape the awareness of her own position aboard his ship.

She moved to take a seat, but took her time crossing the galley, hyper-aware of their eyes on her, all of them seeming to gauge her. She felt their intrigue, and the same wariness she’d felt aboard Leodes' ship, although here, their curiosity seemed the strongest sensation, not as though they doubted her, but rather as though they were eager to see what she would do.

She very studiously didn’t meet their eyes, keeping her gaze level with Dragon’s, even as it took all she had not to drop it. Combined with his presence and the way he looked, he lived up to his reputation as the most dangerous man in the world.

Allowing her breath to ease out, she smoothed her hands over her skirt, pressing down imaginary wrinkles. She kept her back straight, and didn’t let it bother her that she was seated. With how tall he was compared to her, it didn’t make much of a difference if she was sitting or standing.

No one had spoken a word in several seconds, the air fairly thrumming with anticipation, as though no one was sure what was about to happen.

“You have a talent for observation haki,” Dragon said then. He seemed to be assessing her, but Makino didn't know if he could tell just from looking at her, or if Sabo had told him. “There aren't many who can boast an affinity of that magnitude.”

She said nothing. To be honest, she didn’t know what she was supposed to say to that. Thank you?

The imperceptible tilt of his head considered her, his eyes lingering on her hands where she'd laced them in her lap to keep them from shaking. “Have you had any formal training?”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t think the little things Shanks had shown her counted as training. “No.”

Dragon’s expression showed no surprise, although it didn’t reveal anything else, either. “Are you proficient with any weapons?”

Her lips firmed. He could probably guess the answer to that just from looking at her, and her voice this time had an edge to it. “No.”

“Any combat experience? Hand-to-hand, or similar?”

She didn’t flinch, even as her hands fisted in her lap. He wasn’t asking out of ignorance, and she wondered if he was making an example for her sake, or his crew. “No,” she ground out.

She didn’t know if it was meant to be an interview or an interrogation, or what he could possibly gain from making a demonstration of it. He already knew all the answers, so why it was necessary to ask, Makino couldn’t begin to guess.

Dragon looked out over the crew filling the compartment, as though he meant for her to do the same. “The people before you are trained in every area I just mentioned. Haki, weapons, combat, infiltration and sabotage. These are only a few of the skills needed to fight for the cause to which we’ve pledged our lives. They all know the risk that comes with that pledge, and this operation. The one you’ve asked us to include you in. It wasn’t ignorance that made you call my Chief of Staff.”

The last was added with a wry glance at Sabo, who shot him an innocent look, and Makino might have voiced her own confusion if it hadn’t been for the fury that gripped her.

“I understand the _ risk_,” she snapped, and was surprised when her voice flung out like a whip, but then she couldn’t help her own outrage; that like Garp, he should think she did this lightly, as though she didn’t understand just how much was at stake. As though for her, it wasn’t everything.

But unlike Garp, Dragon didn’t correct her, only considered her calmly, before conceding, although with a tone that made her wonder if he was truly conceding anything, or if he’d known all along and had simply been gauging her resolve, “Yes, I suppose you do. At least in part.”

She might have felt some kind of satisfaction if she hadn’t been so exhausted and furious, but if she had, it would have been short-lived, as Dragon continued, “We mean to use the Reverie to declare war on the World Government,” he said, and her eyes widened. “Surprised? You are not the only one here with business in the Holy Land. Your call was…certainly fortuitous.”

She looked at Sabo, who shrugged. The confident smile on his face looked like it was meant as encouragement, but she felt numb to it.

She met Dragon’s gaze again, although he hadn’t taken his off her. And she might have fallen for the convenient alignment of their individual goals, believing it was as easy as that, but she knew it wasn’t, and knew he wasn’t about to offer her to tag along just for the sake of convenience.

“I understand your desire to help your husband,” Dragon said then, and she bit back her waspish remark, to ask if he truly did. She knew nothing about his family, aside from the little boy he’d left, but the fact that he had left him said its part. “And I do not wish this fate upon Red-Hair. He is a man of integrity in an age that sees few of his kind. I owe much to him.”

The deliberate emphasis on the last bit didn't escape her, and she knew that he was referring to Luffy, although she was surprised when Dragon added, “To you as well. Do not think me ungrateful for what you have been to my son, Makino-san. But the fact remains that you are untrained, and under-qualified. Raw talent can only be harnessed to a certain extent without proper training, and you wield your haki like your emotions. You don’t think, you just feel, and in doing so, you leave yourself wide open. You yourself are a risk.”

He paused, allowing the words to sink in, before he said, “Do not misunderstand me. Your bravery has never been questioned, but courage will only get you so far. Every soul aboard this ship knows that, which is why they bring more than courage. Why should I bring a potential liability with me?”

She met his eyes calmly, refusing to cower under the weight of his ruthless judgement, but none of the things he told her were news. She more than anyone was aware of her own capabilities, and the areas in which she lacked.

The lamplight threw his tattoos in sharp relief, hardening his features, the bridge of his prominent nose and the sharp cut of his jaw, and his unsmiling mouth. This was the face of the revolution, unyielding in its war on injustice. It wasn’t a cruel face, but a hard one, and with little room for the kinder marks left on happier lives, although even Dragon had laugh-lines like any mortal man.

Looking at him, Makino had the curious sense she’d felt earlier, with Touya; the one where she’d _ seen, _ as though right into his core. Dragon’s face didn’t need to reveal anything for her to see him.

The slight tightening between his brows told her he’d picked up on it, and this time she did feel satisfaction, recognising that she’d caught him off guard.

“You can list all the areas I’m lacking,” Makino began, her voice calm, and unwavering. “You’re right. I don’t have any training. I’m a barmaid. It’s what I’ve been my whole life, and I’m not apologising for that. I enjoy my job. I’m _ good _at it. And you’re right that I didn’t prepare for this, but I am prepared to do whatever it takes to save him.”

Her voice fell with surprising conviction, louder than she’d believed herself capable, who didn’t like raising her voice for anything, but she wanted him to hear this; wanted him to look at her and know that she was serious, and that she wasn’t doing this on a whim, or simply because she was desperate. She was desperate, but she was also determined. She hadn’t made this decision lightly, but she had _ made _it.

Dragon was still watching her, but when Makino thought he’d keep her suffering his silence, “I will take you to Mariejois,” he said, but her relief was only given a second to register, before he added, “On the condition that you aid our operation wherever necessary.”

She frowned. “You mean become a revolutionary?”

Dragon lifted his hands, palms up, as though to say _ if that’s what you want to call it_, although Makino didn’t know what else you could call it.

She didn’t bother tempering her disbelief, although didn’t think she could have even if she’d wanted to. “Two seconds ago you were accusing me of being a liability, now you want me to_ join _ your cause?”

Dragon’s expression didn’t change. “I made no such accusation. I merely asked what you were bringing to the table, and you answered.” The way he said it made her think it had nothing to do with her conceding to not having any training, which was confirmed when he told her, “Will is important, more so than courage and strength. And you will not hear me accusing you of being lacking where that is concerned.”

She swallowed, her hands trembling where she’d clenched them in her lap, naked without her wedding ring to fiddle with, but before she could say anything, Dragon added, “And inexperienced as you are, you may still be useful.”

“Define ‘useful’,” Makino spat, but Dragon showed no reaction to her anger.

“It means whatever it must, at any given moment,” he said. “It is the same for each and every one of us. And we are all willing to do what is required. If you want our help, you must be willing to assist us in return. That is not an unfounded request, given what you are asking of us. Call me callous if you wish; an opportunist knows how to work a situation to his advantage. Generosity without conditions might be admirable, but not all of us can afford it. We come from different worlds, you and I. They ask different things of us.”

It might have been an insult from someone else, suggesting that her kindness and generosity was the product of naivety and ignorance, or at the very least, Makino had expected him to be condescending. But he wasn’t; he was simply stating the ways in which they were different.

But even if they were, she disagreed. Shanks was from the same world, but didn’t calculate the same ruthless transactions. And it wasn’t through naivety that he was kind, and generous; that was just who he was.

She might have told him, but she had the sense Dragon already knew, from the slight shift in his gaze where he beheld her, but then she was so terribly easy to read, her outrage more than any other emotion. But at least this time, Makino wanted him to see.

She almost thought she saw a flicker of admiration in his eyes, but it was gone before she could consider it, his expression once again a hard slate. “Your husband is a powerful man,” Dragon mused. “Not even Roger had the same influence, on both sides of the law.”

Then he looked at her and said, “And I do not believe you are as inconsequential as you would like everyone to think.”

She swallowed, but knew her face told him everything he needed to know; that even she wasn’t as convinced of it as she might have been once. And she saw his satisfaction now, although didn’t know if it was because he let her, or because he’d let it slip.

“Do you find these terms acceptable, Makino-san?” Dragon asked her.

She considered him where he stood, watching her back calmly, the choice in her hands. And of course she hadn’t believed they would bring her with them without question, hadn’t believed their help would come entirely without a price, but it was something else to be faced with the decision: something more than just choosing to leave Fuschia and Dawn Island. There was no turning back if she accepted. If she declined, she could still go back to Fuschia, to her son and her bar, and leave this in the hands of someone else; someone more capable than her.

But Shanks wasn’t their concern. They wouldn’t save him if it meant going out of their way. And even if she wasn’t the most capable choice, she knew one thing for certain: that _ she _would go out of her way. That she already had.

And they were providing her with an opportunity. It was more than she could have expected, and what did the price matter, if it meant she had a chance of saving him?

There was no question. She had already decided.

“Fine,” Makino said. “I accept.”

Dragon merely inclined his head, a silent affirmation, but Sabo was the one who sprang from his seat, to spur the galley into responding with a rousing cheer.

She caught his grin as he gestured to the compartment, finding his delight echoed in the grinning faces looking at her now, seeming pleased with her show of conviction, their expressions varying between the same intrigue from before, and begrudging respect from the ones who’d beheld her doubtfully ever since she’d set foot inside the galley.

And despite the situation being what it was, Makino couldn’t help but feel hopeful, observing their eager response to her, reminding her of a different crew. As though in their belief that they could challenge the World Government, she felt that she could, too.

Although even firm in her choice, she couldn’t help the flicker of dread, taking in the foreboding width of Sabo’s grin as he looked at her and declared brightly, his voice rising above the roar of the crowd,

“Welcome to the Revolutionary Army, Ma-chan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revolutionary Girl Makino! The WG better watch out.
> 
> (I'm also beginning to wonder if I only wrote this story to force Ben into some kind of P. T. Barnum levels of flashy disguise. Buggy's sense of fashion doesn't exactly reconcile with the Red-Hair Pirates' 'every day is casual Friday' aesthetic, aside from maybe their captain's love of garish pants)


	3. The false Olympus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a minute, by which I mean almost nine months, but between work, life, and other writing projects, I haven't had a lot of time to spare, and I'm excited about this fic, so I wanted to be able to take the time I need with it. But here I am with an obscenely big update I hope can make up for the wait!
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> I know the official spelling is now 'Mary Geoise' but I've gotta say, I don't care for it. So as with certain other romanisations ('Fuschia'), I'm going to stick with 'Mariejois' for the simple sake that I just find it prettier.
> 
> And if anyone noted his absence, in spite of my hand-wavy reuniting of the other Straw-Hats, for the sake of my brain that's already juggling a lot of characters in this, Jinbei is doing me a solid and sitting this one out.

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

Dragon hadn’t looked up from his desk when he’d entered the captain’s quarters, but did so now, and the look on his face told Sabo his cheek hadn’t gone unnoticed. Whether it was appreciated, now that was a different matter. “It was the right decision to get her.”

The quirk of a single brow betrayed a wry amusement that wasn’t nearly as rare as rumour would have it. “The last time our paths crossed, she didn’t even reach my knee, and was too shy to come out from behind her mother’s skirts,” Dragon said. “You will forgive me for voicing my concerns.”

Sabo grinned. “She wasn’t hiding this time.”

“No,” Dragon conceded, the corner of that severe mouth lifting a fraction. “I half-expected a scolding. Her mother was a formidable woman. Even of a gentler nature, I am glad to see her daughter is no pushover.”

His grin eased, and dropping into the armchair sitting before the fireplace, “She’s convincing,” Sabo agreed. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about her.”

“I do,” Dragon said, without hesitation, his gaze sweeping over the newspapers spread across the top of his desk. With Red-Hair’s capture and impending execution, the Reverie’s importance had dropped below the fold, reduced to brief mentions of the expected attendees. The most recent edition included an outline of the Nefertari royal family, and the plucky crown princess. “Red-Hair boasts a similar…persuasion.”

Then, wry, “Perhaps we ought to send her to the Five Elders,” Dragon mused. “I would hazard even they would have trouble, faced with the ruthless scrutiny of those eyes.”

Sabo’s smile fell. Then he said, “…I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Dragon just looked at him, a wry gleam in his eyes, although Sabo was tempted to say it didn’t answer his question.

“Her haki,” Dragon said then, his tone considering now, and Sabo knew _ that _look, the intrigue that so few even thought him capable of, writing him off as too serious for awe of any sort, but Dragon was more like his son than most people realised. “It is a strain I have not encountered before.”

“Of observation?” Sabo asked, and Dragon nodded, his expression deepening to a frown as he looked at the newspapers, and the numerous photographs of Red-Hair.

“Proficient observation users have a keener sense of the world than others,” he began, before directing his next words to Sabo. “You perceive it differently. You don’t use your eyes to see, but your senses. A haki user of your calibre can single out an individual from a crowd even at a distance. Right now, you could point out Koala’s position to me, or Ivankov and Inazuma’s.”

“Her cabin, the infirmary, and the galley,” Sabo said, not a single beat missed, and Dragon inclined his head to indicate his point had been made.

For her part, Makino was out on deck. Sabo was surprised to find it was the case; after the events of the night, he’d expected her to want to stay in her cabin. But her presence was as still as the sea; gentle East Blue where she carried them through the dark towards their destination.

From his considering look, Dragon knew where his mind had gone, although he appeared to be gauging him, as though he was looking for something.

“How deep does that sense go?” he asked him then, and Sabo’s brows knitted.

“What do you mean?”

“Take Koala,” Dragon said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you feel?”

Drawing a breath, Sabo found her, but then she was always at his fingertips, and the action of singling her out from among all the other people on the ship didn’t even require thought. But then her presence had been a fixture in his mind for as long as he could remember, and it was never hard to imagine her; a sunflower that bent towards his hand when he reached for it.

“She’s calm,” he said. Her heart-rate was normal, and she was awake and alert, despite the late hour. “Focused.” His lips quirked in a smile. “My guess is, she’s going over the Pangaea blueprints again.”

“And if I were to ask you what she’s thinking?”

“Then I’d tell you she’s probably still annoyed I spilled coffee all over them.”

His glibness was met with a patient look, as Dragon elaborated, “Of our plan.”

This time, Sabo’s mouth firmed, and he hesitated a moment before speaking, “She’s scared.” It wasn’t something Dragon didn’t already know, but it almost felt like a betrayal, revealing it. “Going back to Mariejois is difficult for her." He’d already told her she didn’t have to come, and had promptly been told what she thought about _ that_, and where he could stick his concerns. And he understood her reasons for wanting to go, just like he knew why she was afraid.

And it felt curiously intimate, revealing this, something she hadn’t even told him, but before he could stop himself, he was saying, “It’s not the thought of going in that scares her, it’s the thought of not being able to get out again.”

Dragon’s expression revealed none of his thoughts, but Sabo doubted this was news. “And do you say that because you can sense it, or because you know her so well?”

He thought about it, but he detected no fear in her presence now, nothing at all to suggest that she was even worried, even though he knew it existed, buried under her calm. “The last one,” he said, but then, “Wait, you’re not suggesting that Makino is a _ mind reader?_”

Dragon’s mouth tugged up at one corner, no doubt at the look on his face. “Not exactly, although you are not far off the mark.”

Mouth slightly agape, Sabo just stared at him, but Dragon only shrugged one shoulder.

“One’s innermost self is usually private,” he began, the deep baritone of his voice carrying the words without inflection. The fire crackling in the cabin’s hearth made his tattoos stand out, deepening the already generous shadows gathered in the grooves of his features, but his face revealed nothing of what lay beneath the markings, as he continued gravely, “Our secrets, our shame. What lies at our cores. In a relationship, knowing someone intimately will reveal them, but it’s a knowledge that takes time and patience to uproot. And often, not a small amount of trust.”

He met Sabo’s eyes, wide now that he’d caught on, as Dragon said, “But imagine if you could look at someone and know them for who they are, instantly. The power you might wield over another.” His gaze shifted towards the bank of windows to his right, and East Blue beyond, her still depths impenetrable to even the sky’s thousand eyes.

“The things that make us human are often what make us vulnerable,” he continued. “In our line of work, it’s not something we can readily afford. As such, some of us go to great lengths to protect that part of ourselves; to keep it hidden from scrutiny, and those who’d seek to use it against us. The same way we train our bodies to withstand damage in order to survive. But while armour can shield your body, your vital organs, there is no protection from an observation that sees right through you.”

He paused, and then to Sabo’s shock, looked at him and said, “She was in my presence less than five minutes, and she knew.”

Stunned, Sabo said nothing, still busy processing the information. But Dragon didn’t appear angry about what she’d done, however unintentional the intrusion had been from Makino’s side. In fact, Sabo almost thought he looked fascinated, a gleam in his eyes now that reminded him, startlingly, of his little brother.

“There is a certain irony to it,” Dragon continued, his even tone taking on a wry lilt. “Her face cannot help its own honesty. She hides nothing of herself, not her thoughts or her feelings. In return, there is no hiding from her. Is it the price for her power, or is that simply who she is? I cannot say. I would wager not even she knows the answer.”

Sabo watched him, his hands resting on the desk, the imposing figure cut by his broad frame, cloaked in the cabin’s shadows. And few had the privilege of sharing his counsel this way, of taking part in the thought process that lay behind his enigmatic persona; to witness firsthand the keen intelligence and the fiercely calculating mind that had given him his reputation. But for all that Sabo probably knew his leader better than most, he still couldn’t claim that he knew who Dragon was.

“Her guileless nature is deceptive,” Dragon said then, before letting slip a soft snort. “I realise that is a paradox, but those are the facts. It’s easy to overlook the depth of her ability. Big waves draw the most attention on this sea, command the most fear, and respect. When the water is clear and the surface perfectly still, few spare a thought to how far it is to the bottom.”

He met Sabo’s eyes, his own bright where they burned in the firelight. “I want you to find out if there is one.”

Frowning, “You mean train her?” Sabo asked, and saw him shake his head.

“No.” His gaze dropped to the newspapers again, fixed on Red-Hair’s face in one of the photographs. His voice was calm, and all the more chilling for it when Dragon said,

“I want you to unleash her.”

―

A pregnant moon hung low on the sky, huge and heavy-bellied over the black water. It looked like a paper lantern, pinned to the ceiling where it bent above their heads, cleared of the clouds that had obscured it when she’d come aboard. Now it was covered with stars instead, thick clusters in hues of coral and lilac, blue and gold, like the careless brushstrokes of an artist over the wide canvas of the sky. Makino couldn’t take her eyes off it.

She’d never seen a night sky like this, even from the Fuschia docks, but remembered something Shanks had told her once, of feeling weightless with only sea and sky around you.

She didn’t like feeling weightless. She liked her feet grounded, solid earth beneath them, and anchored by the knowledge that however wide the open sky, she knew her own place beneath it, and where she was going, the winding, hard-packed roads of her little island always leading to the same places. Even following the beach along the Fuschia shore, you could see your destination, and the sea rushing in over her ankles didn't change the reassuring knowledge that the tide might come and go, but her island always remained, steady beneath her feet.

There were no paths to follow here, only the horizon on all sides, and even with their course set for a destination, she couldn’t help but feel adrift. Mariejois still seemed too far out of reach to feel real, even as there was no escaping the reality it had plunged her into, with her husband in its dungeons.

Looking over the sea, Makino didn’t think it would have been so bad, with him to ground her.

She thumbed the vivre card in her hand, the edges blackened, but it remained whole, which was a small reassurance. Beneath her, the ship creaked softly, and at least the sea was calm, which allowed her stubbornly persisting seasickness a moment of respite.

Footsteps behind her alerted her to her approach, although she’d already felt her coming from the galley.

“Here,” Koala said as she came up to where she stood by the railing, and Makino looked up to find her holding out a tin cup.

Wordlessly, she reached to accept it. It was warm to the touch, with a smell that stung her nose, although her first thought was that drinking probably wasn’t such a good idea, when she was already having trouble keeping food down.

“It’s ginger root tea,” Koala explained, leaning her elbows on the banister. From her smile, she’d read her thoughts off her face. “You mentioned you were feeling queasy earlier. And it’ll warm you up.”

Makino didn’t mention that it wasn’t the seasickness so much as the fact that she just felt too rattled to muster an appetite for anything, but she was right―it was warm. “Thank you.”

Her fingers crooked around it, the tin burning against her palms. She thought of the vivre card, slipped back into her bodice, but the phantom heat was only that, although she wondered sometimes if it was just her imagination that she could feel him. It wasn’t just a piece of paper, and even if it was a meagre comfort, it was her only connection to him.

The thought pulled her eyes back to the sea, but nothing had changed, and like Shanks, Mariejois seemed no closer than it had ever been.

Beneath them, Dragon’s ship sat steady on the water, firm in its course. It was still a feat accepting where she was, and what she’d just agreed to. They were declaring war on the World Government, to bring down the Celestial Dragons. Just a few days ago her life had been her bar and her baby, and now she was en route to dismantle a system that had been in place for eight hundred years.

She wondered idly what Shanks would think, if he knew. If he would be angry, or something else, the one person who believed her capable of anything.

She looked out over the water and the night sky. Normally she’d be in bed by now, a long day behind her and another ahead of her. The days were always long while he was away, the hours crawling by while she tried not to count them, but she had endured them all, and didn’t know what to do with her own impatience now. Part of her wanted to bend over the railing and_ scream_, if only to release the one that had lodged itself at the bottom of her ribcage.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” Koala said then, and Makino started, only to find her smiling, although it didn’t reach her eyes. “To be honest, I’m not thrilled about going back there either.”

Makino opened her mouth, before she paused, her train of thought having snagged on a single word, and looking at Koala, she asked her, “Back?”

Her smile widened, but it didn’t reach any deeper. “It’s been a few years since I escaped. I thought I’d gotten past it, but the closer we get, the more I’m thinking you never do.”

Makino just stared at her, for a moment so floored by the implication she forgot all her own worries.

When she at last managed to locate her voice, it was hoarse. “I didn’t know.”

Koala shrugged. For a brief moment, her eyes looked far away. “It was a long time ago. I was very young.”

Her heart constricted, because she was still _ young_, but Makino didn’t have it in her to ask just how young she’d been, even as she knew it didn’t change anything, and that her own disbelief didn’t alter the facts of what the World Nobles did.

“I’m glad,” Koala said then, and at her confused look, explained, “That you couldn’t tell. There was a time where I thought people could tell just by looking at me. That I’d been…what I’d been. That it was part of me somehow.”

She held her eyes calmly. And Makino knew her outrage had to show on her face, but then she never could hide anything, but Koala only smiled; a genuine one this time, as though at the sight. “It took me years to realise it’s just a belief that’s ingrained in you―that it’s what they _ do_,” she continued. “It’s easy to think it’s the mark they brand you with that remains, but it goes much deeper than that. They don’t just treat you as less than human; the worst part is that they make _ you _ believe you are.”

Makino listened, her hands trembling where they gripped the cup, an anger that didn’t feel like her leaving her short of breath, imagining Shanks in that place.

Looking at Koala found her considering the night sky. And she couldn’t imagine the kind of will it took to survive something like that, only to face it all again. She didn’t know if she was impressed, or furious it should even be necessary.

“And you’re still going back there?” Makino asked her.

Koala’s gaze lowered to her cup, cradled in her gloved hands. A gentle furrow of tension had wedged between her brows, but her voice was even as she spoke, “There are people who weren’t as lucky as I was. I only escaped because someone tried to change it. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be here.”

The mention stirred something at the back of her mind―a conversation with Shanks, and a story that had seemed as far-fetched as the place he’d been telling her about; of the one who’d scaled the Red Line and the walls of the white city with his bare hands.

“Fisher Tiger,” Makino said, and saw her nod in affirmation. And she knew of the rebellion, but only through a secondhand recount, and was struck then by the realisation of _ who _ she was talking to, and of just how vast the gap between them was―of how lucky she had been to have lived the life she had, that when she’d been twenty, her greatest sorrow had been loneliness.

Koala smiled. This time, it reached her eyes. “Uncle Tai knew he couldn’t bring down the whole system, that it would take more to do it, but he tried to do _ something, _to make a difference. And it made a difference to me.” She met her eyes. “I’d like to do the same, for someone else. That’s why I’m going back.”

Makino lowered her eyes to her own cup, and the still surface of the contents. The tea was getting cold, but her stomach had thankfully settled. “I admire your courage.”

“Funny,” Koala said, her smile widening. Makino wondered if everyone saw the difference as vividly as she did, between her genuine smiles and the ones she put on, but the conviction beneath was the same. “I was going to say the same thing.”

At her dubious look, “I’ve trained for this,” Koala said. “For _ years_, and going back there still terrifies me. You just told everyone that you have no training, _ no _ experience, and you’re still willing to break into the most heavily guarded city in the world for him.” She grinned, and lifting her cup to her lips, said, “I heard the guys talking in the galley earlier. If you weren’t already married, I’m pretty sure you’d have more than one offer before we reached Mariejois.”

Her laugh pulled free of its own volition, tear-clogged as it was. “They can try,” Makino said.

They stood a moment in silence, as she mulled over her words, thinking of the fishman who’d singlehandedly led the rebellion that had burned the holy city to the ground. But even knowing what one person could do, it was hard to imagine herself as similarly capable―as being capable of _ change. _ What had she ever done that had changed anything?

“I still don’t know how I’ll be of use to you,” Makino said. Her conversation with Dragon in the galley had been nagging at her, because for all her bravado, she couldn’t escape the truth: she was woefully unprepared for this. “I haven’t done anything worthwhile in my life. Not like you.” Not like Shanks, or Luffy. She hadn’t brought about any changes; hadn’t made a difference like that.

Koala just looked at her. “You know, he talked about you a lot,” she said, drawing her gaze. “Sabo,” she explained with a small smile, but this one also genuine. “When he first got his memories back, he wouldn’t stop. You and Mama Dadan. You made a pretty big difference to him.”

Then before Makino could reply, “And Red-Hair,” she continued. “I don’t think he’d agree that you’ve changed nothing.”

The reminder struck her, but not unkindly, and the image came to her then, of their newborn son asleep in his arm, and the look of quiet wonderment he’d worn, as though he’d never seen anything like it―of being so overcome, he had no words to offer; the man who had a clever comeback for everything.

It was the same look he’d given her, and more times than she could count. Stepping onto her shores after ten years, and on their wedding day, with her feet bare on the deck of his ship. And in quiet moments on uneventful days, finding him watching her as she worked, as though no matter how much of the world he saw, it all paled in comparison.

She wanted to give him more children. More than he had arms to hold them, and to see that look on his face, always. For him to be_ happy _more than anything.

“They say you can’t keep a sailor from the sea,” Koala said then, with a sidelong look. “Seems to me like it’s the opposite case with you.”

Her breath left her, not fully a laugh, and yet.

“What?” Koala asked, curious, but Makino shook her head.

“It’s just something he would say.” Her smile softened, as she confessed, her voice tinged with something wry and unbearably fond, “He actually wrote a song about it.”

“About you?” At her nod, her delight brightened. “Can I hear it?”

She refrained from saying that she probably already had; the last thing she needed was for Dragon’s people to find out about _that_. And anyway, Makino didn’t think she could invoke that shanty here, without him.

Her smile was apologetic, although it probably revealed a lot more as she told her, quietly, “Maybe another time.”

Koala’s look was understanding. “My point remains,” she said simply. “If the sea couldn’t put up a fight against you, what’s the World Government going to do?”

Pursing her lips to stifle her smile, “You’re trying to make me feel better,” Makino accused her.

“Is it working?”

She lowered her eyes to her cup, but conceded, “Maybe a little.”

And she did. Even thinking about where they were going, and her own part in what they sought to do, she wasn’t cowering. She had no powers to alter the course of the world, was only one person, but even knowing that, she couldn’t imagine herself turning back, and to give up on him now. Because Shanks might have promised her to come back, but Makino had made him a promise, too.

The door to the deckhouse opening drew their eyes to Sabo stepping outside. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, as he came up to the foredeck where they were standing. Makino wondered if he’d been talking to Dragon. “It’s freezing.”

“How would you know?” Koala shot back primly, as he moved to lean on the railing to Makino’s left, caging her between them. “You don’t get cold anymore.”

Nonplussed, Sabo reached across her to steal his partner's cup, which she relinquished with a huff as he quipped, “My nipples still get perky like everyone else’s.”

“Yes, but _ must _ you announce it every time?”

Makino smiled, observing their interaction from where she stood between them. When they’d visited her in Fuschia, it had been all too easy to forget who they were, and even here, in the midst of their organisation, there were moments where she forgot―when she saw simply two young people, who by all rights should have no cares in the world, instead of carrying it on their shoulders.

But then that had been _ her _ privilege, to forget why the Revolutionary Army even existed, and to not spare their enemy more than a passing thought. What had the World Government ever meant to her? The nobles in Goa barely acknowledged Fuschia’s existence, and the Holy Land had felt even further removed. It hadn’t concerned her, that other world, but it concerned her now, if only for a much more selfish reason than Dragon’s organisation fought for.

She wasn’t doing this for the betterment of the world. Even now, no righteous fire had been lit in her heart, to join their cause in earnest. She had her own objective, and what burned in her heart was something else, wasn’t righteousness but a feeling that eclipsed everything, but that love had never been less terrifying for the power it gave her now, when she had none. But she was no heroine in the making, ready and willing to bravely give her life for a greater cause, because it was the right thing to do. And she was fine with that; it was her prerogative to be selfish, and to use them to her own ends, like they would use her. She’d been no rebel before this, and her desires remained the same now: to see her husband safe, and home to stay.

Maybe Shanks was right, and she really was more of a pirate than she gave herself credit.

“Thank you,” she told Sabo then, and watched them pause their bickering to look at her. Koala had stolen her cup back, and her words were directed to them both. “For coming to get me. I didn’t say it before.”

Sabo only smiled. “You don’t have to thank us.”

Makino shook her head. “No, I do.” Her call with Garp was still fresh in her mind, that blunt dismissal, even as she recognised his reasons for refusing her. The reasonable choice, maybe, and once she would have prided herself on being just that: sensible, and careful. But when she was about to lose the person who meant more to her than her own life, there was no room for reason. She was glad Sabo at least understood that.

“What exactly are you planning to do in Mariejois?” she asked him then, and saw them exchange a look. Dragon hadn’t been specific, but then that hadn’t come as a surprise, and she doubted Sabo would be more forthcoming about their plans.

Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later when he said, “That part’s classified. Sorry.”

She shook her head. At least he sounded chagrined. “It’s fine.” Her smile felt a little awkward, but it held no accusation in it. “I’m a new initiate. It wouldn’t make sense to let me in on everything.”

“I’ll tell you everything you need to know,” he assured her. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I appreciate that you’re not coddling me,” Makino told him gently, “But you can’t promise that.”

Sabo opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Makino cut him off. “If something does,” she said, firmly, “You’re not allowed to blame yourself.” When he looked ready to object again, she forged on, “I asked you to help me, and I’m doing this knowing the risk. I’m not harbouring any illusions that this will be easy, or safe.” She held his eyes, no less unflinching than when she’d told Dragon the same. “If I’m going to be part of your operation, do me the courtesy of treating me like it.”

She caught Koala’s smile in her periphery, but didn’t drop her eyes from Sabo’s. And he was still disconcertingly tall, when she could so clearly remember a time where he hadn’t even reached her shoulder, but even towering above her, she didn’t let it deter her, firm in her conviction, even as she allowed him to see her fear, too. She’d never hidden anything from anyone, and wasn’t going to start now.

His expression softened visibly, and something like pride winked in his eyes as he sighed over a chuckle. “Did you learn to weaponise those eyes by yourself, or did someone teach you?” he asked her, and she huffed.

“Be serious.”

“I am!” He sounded surprisingly sincere. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m pretty sure you could negotiate a whole number of things by just staring down your opponent. I told Dragon-san we ought to send you to the Gorosei. He might actually be considering it.”

Makino just shook her head. Shanks had said something to the same effect on multiple occasions. Granted, it was usually followed by a demonstration of just how effective he found it, which usually included some kind of elaborate striptease that would inevitably have her laughing herself to tears.

Her chest ached, like it was hard to breathe, and she curled her fingers together to keep from reaching for it, as though pressing it might alleviate the pain somewhat.

It hurt, missing him. Like some vital part of her was _ missing_.

“I don’t know if it’s as effective as you think,” she said, and hated how her voice wavered, remembering.

“You’d be surprised,” Koala said, but without the teasing she’d expected. “It happened with Dragon earlier. Everyone saw it.” At her dubious look, she shrugged. “You didn’t even yield a little bit. Most people fold like a house of cards when he crosses his arms like that, but you refused to bend.”

“Or they wet themselves,” Sabo supplied. At Makino’s look, he shrugged. “Boss didn’t even do anything, the guy just lost control of his bladder.”

“_That’s _ what started that weird rumour?” Koala asked, and Sabo grinned.

“It was a short leap from bladder control to people believing he could stop people’s hearts by looking at them. I’m reasonably sure he can’t. Almost ninety-five percent positive.” Then to Makino, “Anyway, that’s what got rumours circulating that he’s not entirely human, and most people find it hard looking him in the eye, but you didn’t even flinch.”

“He’s just a man,” Makino said. She had found nothing inhuman in his eyes. In fact, she had found quite the opposite. “He’s not a god.”

Sabo’s grin widened, as though he'd liked that. “That kind of thinking is one of the reasons the world hasn’t had more uprisings.” He exchanged a look with Koala. “But we’re about to change that.”

Makino said nothing, only worried the cup in her hands. She thought of the things she’d overheard in Goa, and that she’d read in the newspaper. “They say the same about Shanks, don’t they?”

“Depends who you ask,” Sabo said. “People here have a lot of respect for Red-Hair. He doesn’t pretend, which is more than you can say for most pirates in his position. There are some pretty _ wild _rumours about him, though. If it wasn’t for Luffy, I might have believed the one where he bartered his arm to a nereid for a good time, and she took his sanity in the same breath.”

Makino touched her brow. _ Yasopp. _ “I know who started that rumour.”

Sabo frowned at her, before his expression lit up. “_You’re _ the nereid?”

“Slander is what it is,” Makino muttered. “I never_ took _ anything. His sanity was a lost cause long before we met.”

He only looked delighted. “Still,” he said, grinning. “Are you sure there isn’t _ some _ truth to the stuff they're saying?”

She huffed a laugh, and didn’t know if it felt good or just the opposite, thinking of him the way she knew him: always laughing. “That he’s _ godlike_? Don’t let him hear you say that, or he’ll never let me forget it.” Although even saying it, she couldn’t help but think that he was right. If not exactly godhood, he’d always had an air of nobility about him, her fey pirate lord.

“You know,” Sabo continued, when her thoughts had wandered to kinder days, to sunlight on her pillow and her husband asleep beside her, his palm splayed over the curve of her belly, heavy with their son. The longest he’d allowed himself to stay with her. “Technically, with Red-Hair currently out of play, his territory is yours.”

Makino looked at him, caught off guard by the remark, but Sabo only grinned. “‘What’s mine is yours’, isn't that how it goes? And correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember you saying that your bar is an equal partnership now. Seems only fair it should go both ways, hm?"

Gaping, she was about to remind him that there was a considerable difference between her husband putting on an apron to serve customers and governance of a whole territory, when Koala interjected brightly, “Empress Makino does have a nice ring to it.”

She was about to protest―to object to the suggestion that she governed anything other than the bar between her own four walls, and that she was anything more than what she’d always been―but the words were glued to the roof of her mouth, as though they resisted speaking. That when faced with the opportunity to cede all responsibility, and any claim she might have had to his territory, now under Blackbeard’s rule, what gripped her wasn’t helplessness but _ refusal_, the feeling as acute as it was unapologetic.

She thought of the islands under Shanks’ protection, the ones he’d talked about so eagerly, and that he’d wanted to show her one day. Winter islands with white, glittering forests where the snow was so deep you feared there was no bottom, and where the northern lights bent the sky. The small summer islets where you could stand on the lip of the shore and see right across to the other side, and where the air fairly dripped with heat; and still gentler climates, with sprawling apple orchards and shores as green as blown glass, and uncluttered skies that had no beginning or end. And the people there, some of whom she felt like she knew already.

She’d heard what Blackbeard did to the islands he took, that it was swear fealty or perish, if he didn’t simply destroy them.

Thinking of those places, ravaged beyond recognition, the anger that rose from her depths now was unquestionably _hers_, a suddenly righteous feeling, as though something of hers had been threatened. But she’d never set foot on any of those islands; had never even seen those green shores or winter forests. She'd only heard about them from Shanks. Those people probably didn’t even know she existed. What right did she have to consider them hers?

And yet she couldn’t help but feel protective of it―the places he loved, that he’d kept safe. And she could already imagine what he would say, and without hesitation.

She_ was _ more than she appeared. She wouldn’t be where she was if she believed differently. And she didn’t know what to call herself, if she had any kind of title at all when she had never done anything to warrant one. Empress seemed laughable, when she had done nothing for those people. But it didn’t change what she would have done for them, had she been able.

“I don’t have the power to take it back,” she said. Not on her own. Not without him―without all of them. And like Shanks, it hurt her to think about her crew, and if they were even alive, but if they weren’t, it was just her left, and she could no sooner topple a tyrant like Blackbeard than she could the false gods in Mariejois.

“Yet.”

The calm remark dragged her eyes to Sabo, only to find a new expression on his face, something that wasn’t quite eagerness but kin to it. “But what if you could bring someone like Blackbeard down―if there was another way to defeat him than through force. If you had _ that _ power,” he said, holding her gaze, “would you try?”

Makino stared at him, and the fire in his eyes when he looked at her, as though he was seeing her differently. Or as though he was simply seeing her.

She couldn’t help the wary tinge in her voice, and saw when his grin grew that she was right to be worried.

“What are you asking me, exactly?”

―

The Room of Flowers was truly a sight to behold.

New sunlight poured through the tall windows, filling the waiting cups, the overflow dripping from bells and petals of burnt marigolds and foxgloves the colour of bruises, azaleas and lobelia, and blue hydrangeas in hues of the sky at dawn. White snowdrops clustered chastely amidst thick bushels of sweet-smelling lavender, and roses grew wild along the walls with the ivy. Around the edges of the room, the great maples bent under the high ceiling, and slender ginkgo trees sat prettily at their sides like courtly maidens, holding their delicate fans.

Bees and hummingbirds were the only attendants, but the early morning saw another presence breach the sanctity of the wildwood chamber.

“Im-sama.”

No acknowledgement was given to the address, but then that was not unusual, and the speaker was not deterred, his back curved where he bent amidst the flowers.

“Regarding the capture of Red-Haired Shanks. The Fleet Admiral wishes to go through with the execution. A show of strength and unity, to the guests of the Reverie.” A slight pause followed, before he admitted, with visible reluctance, “As for the Elders, among us there is…dissent.”

Still no acknowledgement. The prostrate shape continued, “Red-Hair is unquestionably a man of significance. For the past few years, we have attributed much of the world’s balance to his actions, and for that, he has received certain…accommodations. His recent visit was one such allowance, as you are well aware. To breach this holy place without detection―to reach the Room of Authority itself!―is unprecedented. And yet his request for an audience was granted, by virtue of his character. In our long history, not even a descendant king has been awarded such a boon, but we have valued his insight, which is no small honour. Among the majority, he is held in high regard, hence our...disagreement. As you can see, even now, Red-Hair's influence is undeniable.”

A pause, before he added, “However, he is a pirate. Releasing him would raise questions. Such an action might be calamitous, when we are already at a precarious juncture.”

Then, “And there is another curious coincidence,” he continued, when there was still no response, a note of reverence entering his voice, “The light that must be extinguished…among the candidates, Red-Hair is personally connected to two. Perhaps this might be fortuitous…”

The slight incline of a head was the only sign of interest, but even small, the gesture made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He bowed deeper. “In any case, we leave this decision to you, great Im-sama.”

A long moment passed. The air in the room was fragrant and thick, trickling like sap through the branches. The dark leaves of the climbing ivy watched from the high walls, and nothing stirred amidst the foliage, a stillness as unchanging as the perpetual spring, carefully cultivated over centuries, ever-perennial. No rogue weeds were allowed to spring up amidst the selected seeds, to disturb the balance. A true marvel of the gods; an utterly perfect world.

Then a voice spoke, indescribable to any who’d ever had the honour of hearing it, soft as a caress, and yet heavy as a judge’s hammer.

“_Announce it_.”

―

“She _ escaped?_”

The thunderous voice boomed through the whole floor, causing a group of nervous recruits to scatter, and Sengoku to pause in his tracks.

Observing the cowering messenger in the Fleet Admiral’s doorway, busy sweating through his uniform, he considered for a second the merit of interrupting, or at the very least announcing himself. He really was too old to be eavesdropping, and once, it wouldn’t have been befitting of his post.

Then again, he wasn’t Fleet Admiral anymore.

Idling by the photocopier, he made a show of pretending to read the announcements on the noticeboard, his gaze fixed on a poor recruit’s appeal for whoever had stolen the trousers to all his uniforms to return them, and an ear on the Fleet Admiral’s office.

“And you’ve searched the whole island?” Sakazuki snapped.

The messenger in the doorway nodded fervently. From his shifting gaze, he was searching for an exit. “The whole of Goa Kingdom, Fleet Admiral. There’s no sign of her!”

“_How _ could you let her escape? She’s one woman with a child!”

“I-I apologise, Fleet Admiral, I’m only the mes―”

“Report back to Stainless,” Sakazuki cut him off. “I want her found.”

“R-Right away, Fleet Admiral!” With a jerky salute, he turned and bolted, stopping only to bow to Sengoku, who waved the formality off with a smile, and watched as the messenger made a strategic retreat.

Two beats passed―Sengoku counted them―and then, “I know you’re there, Sengoku.”

Stepping into the doorway found Sakazuki looking up from his desk. The hard-hewn lines of his face were arranged in a mildly constipated expression, but then that was business as usual, although his promotion had come with at least one new protruding vein, standing at attention right above his left eyebrow. No grey hairs, though. Yet.

“Trouble?” Sengoku asked mildly.

From the unamused look he got, his cheek hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Sengoku peered down the corridor where the messenger had escaped. “What was that about?

His honest curiosity revealed only that, but then he really was out of the loop on this one. One of the perks of being semi-retired was not having to keep up with everything, every single day, although he did miss being the first one notified of new changes.

Sakazuki didn’t answer at once, and Sengoku wondered then if he would, although that would be a blatant show of suspicion, when even junior officers were kept informed.

But the moment passed quickly, as the Fleet Admiral finally yielded. For all his vocal criticism of him, Sengoku didn’t believe Sakazuki mistrusted him. A matter of pride, then.

“Red-Hair has a wife and son in East Blue,” Sakazuki said at length, moving one of the papers on his desk. A photograph lay there, but Sengoku raised his eyes from it before he could catch him looking.

His expression revealed nothing but mild surprise. “Indeed?”

“I sent a division to collect them,” Sakazuki continued, “but someone beat me to the punch. She’s already gone.”

“Into hiding, mostly likely,” Sengoku said. “It would be the wise thing to do, in her position.” Pausing for a beat, he asked, this time with surprise, “You don’t think she’ll be a threat?”

Sakazuki waved him off. “The girl is harmless. Nothing like Red-Hair. But she’d be useful.”

“Towards?”

“Making sure Red-Hair stays put.”

“Ah,” Sengoku said, understanding. “If metal chains can’t hold a man, find something that will?”

Sakazuki gave no response, and this time, Sengoku allowed his gaze to glance over his desk. Despite the amount of reports on it, it was almost aggressively orderly; a reflection of the man himself.

A map of East Blue lay atop the papers. Sakazuki was considering it, and Sengoku paused on it only a moment before asking, “You are expanding your search for her, then?”

Sakazuki didn’t look up from where he was considering the map. “We don’t currently have the resources to search all of East Blue,” he said. “Not with the Reverie and every damn royal ship in need of a personal escort. One of the Warlords might do it, but I'd rather not solicit their services if I can avoid it.”

Sengoku’s show of understanding was a noncommittal sound. Sakazuki was a staunch critic of the Warlord system.

“As long as Red-Hair thinks we have them, it will be enough,” Sakazuki said.

“And if he finds out we don’t?”

The Fleet Admiral pinned him with a look. “And who would tell him?”

Sengoku didn’t let his expression show that he’d caught the thinly veiled threat: that Sakazuki would know where to lay the blame, should it come to that. “A fair point,” he conceded instead, before his eyes landed on the photograph on the desk. “Have you considered issuing a reward for her arrest?”

“If it must be done,” Sakazuki said, the words clipped, which spoke of a thinning patience for his curiosity. “For now, I am keeping it under wraps. An official wanted poster raises the possibility of the news reaching Red-Hair.” His gaze glanced off the photograph, his brows furrowed in a deepening frown, as though the sight of it annoyed him. “Her description has been given to outposts in East Blue. There will be few places for her to hide.”

Sengoku only nodded. “You know what’s best,” he said, this time without cheek, although from the irritated look he got, Sakazuki had had a different impression.

Sensing he had overstayed his welcome, he turned to leave, when Sakazuki stopped him. “Did Garp leave yet?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Sengoku nodded. “En route to Fishman Island, to escort the royal family as ordered.” He paused. “Why?”

The Fleet Admiral’s expression remained impregnable. “Nothing.”

Sengoku didn’t press the issue, or linger in the doorway. The recruits passing him in the corridor sprang to attention, and smiling, he waved them off before continuing on his way, seemingly without a purpose. Another perk to being semi-retired: no one paid much attention to what you were doing.

He crossed the floor, in the usual disarray of a busy morning, but then the Reverie kept their hands full. Many of their higher ranking officers had been deployed as escorts for the noble families attending the summit, which was nothing short of a bureaucratic nightmare. Part of him was relieved it wasn’t his responsibility to hold it all together.

The office he was looking for was located all the way across the floor from the Fleet Admiral’s, and a brief glance over his shoulder assured him he wasn’t being observed. Calmly pocketing his bag of rice crackers, he let himself inside, unsurprised when the door yielded without resistance. Garp never bothered locking it.

His best friend’s office bore the signs of a man who rarely spent time in it, but then Garp had always preferred field work to sitting behind a desk.

Sengoku spared a wry look at the untouched pile of reports. Semi-retirement usually meant _ more _ paperwork, but if Garp had gotten the memo, it was probably at the bottom of that pile.

Then again, he thought, although this time with a smile―it wasn’t his problem anymore.

Shutting the door behind him, he approached the desk. Three Den Den Mushi sat sleeping atop it, next to a beautiful cigar humidor in mahogany; a gift for his first promotion, from an old friend he refused to name. Along with the framed photograph beside it, it was the only personal item he kept, but Sengoku hadn’t come for his cigars.

He picked the frame off the desk. The toddler in the picture bore little resemblance to his wanted poster, save maybe the grin that took up half his face. But the whole world knew of Garp’s relation to Straw-Hat Luffy, and few who’d seen the photograph would mistake it for anyone else.

The girl holding him was maybe sixteen, small and fair, her cheeks lightly freckled and her dark hair short and tied back with a colourful kerchief. Perfectly innocent―and perfectly anonymous.

Pressing the small divot in the back, he cracked the frame open to reveal the photograph hidden behind it, and the young woman in it, her dark eyes smiling where they’d fixed on the camera. But even older, it was the same girl, still small and fair and with the same dark eyes, her longer hair pulled back with a yellow kerchief and her hands tucked under the curve of a visibly pregnant belly. The date on the back said it had been taken roughly a year ago.

_ She married Red-Hair_, Garp had told him, six months ago now, a drink in his hand. Sengoku wondered sometimes if Garp would have shared the news, had he still been Fleet Admiral.

_ They have a little boy, _ he’d continued―had proffered the photograph he held now. She had called him that day to announce it, hence the drink, and the wrought expression on his face that had looked like it hadn’t known if it was allowed to be happy. _ Only have this picture of ‘er, but I heard he’s big, and healthy. _

Then, with more care than he was known for: _ They named him Ace. _

And whatever conflicted feelings he had about the girl’s choice of husband, one thing had been utterly without doubt, as Garp had looked at him and said, hard, _ I need to make sure they’re safe. _

He considered the picture of her, unassuming in her embroidered apron, a serving tray idling on the counter beside her. The wife of one of the most powerful pirates in the world, and the mother of his child. Hiding in plain sight, but then she’d had that luxury for some time now.

But if she remained elusive, it wouldn’t be long, Sengoku surmised, before the world would know her face as well as her husband's.

He pocketed both photographs, tucking the empty frame into the bottom drawer out of sight. If Akainu had suspicions of Garp’s connection to the barmaid in Fuschia Port, he wasn’t about to give him any evidence.

He made to leave, but opening the door to the corridor found Tsuru there.

“Tsu-chan,” he said, although a glance down the corridor found them alone. “Thought you’d left already.” Like Garp, she’d been dispatched as an escort.

“In due time,” Tsuru replied simply.

A beat of silence followed where they only looked at each other. Somewhere across the floor, Sakazuki’s voice could be heard shouting for a report.

“I heard the Fleet Admiral ordered Stainless' division to East Blue,” Tsuru said then. “Dawn Island. An arrest order for Red-Hair’s wife.”

Sengoku said nothing, and for a moment neither did she, but then, “He called me once,” Tsuru said. “Garp. About thirty years ago, to ask me if I knew anything about childcare. In fact, his exact words were ‘my son came out of the womb fully grown, but I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with an infant girl’.”

He snorted. “I imagine you punished him accordingly for assuming_ you _would.”

Her mouth quirked, the barest of smiles. “The screaming infant in the background was punishment enough. I forgave him on account of desperation clouding his judgement. And anyway, I suspect Em gave him a sufficient earful.”

His grin broke his composure, as he agreed wryly, “She was good at those."

Another beat passed, heavy with mutual understanding, before Sengoku finally ventured, “Does he know they’re looking for her?”

Tsuru held his eyes. “Do you believe he would have willingly gone to Fishman Island if he knew?”

His mouth firmed, remembering the Fleet Admiral's earlier inquiry about Garp's whereabouts. “Does Akainu suspect there is a connection?”

She made a considering hum. “He might not think it’s a complete coincidence, given Goa Kingdom’s particular notoriety,” she said. “But had it been more than that, he would have called him back.” Then, this time with a raised brow, even as her eyes twinkled, “And no one calls him that anymore. His last memo was very clear.”

His reply was a deadpan, “I’m retired.”

“Semi-retired.”

Smiling, he reached for the bag of rice crackers in his pocket. “See? I can’t keep up with all the changes around here.”

“There certainly have been many,” Tsuru agreed. “We are living in interesting times.”

“Only old people say things like that, Tsu-chan,” Sengoku retorted dryly, and saw a genuine grin break through her composure, before it softened.

“They’ve set a date for Red-Hair’s execution,” she said then, and Sengoku nodded. He’d heard the announcement. Knowing Morgans, he would have already been informed. It would be in today’s paper.

“I suspected it was only a matter of time.”

The reminder caused his thoughts to fleet to the photographs tucked away in his pocket. Sengoku thought they would have felt heavier once, like his sense of duty. Maybe he really was getting old.

He saw her gaze shift to the door behind him. “I thought I’d make sure Garp didn’t leave the hot plate on in his office,” Tsuru said. “You know how forgetful he is.” The corner of her mouth lifted a fraction, as her gaze flicked to the pocket of his coat, before meeting his. “But it appears you had the same idea.”

His smile was as unassuming as his answer. “We know him well, you and I,” he agreed, before adding, meaningfully, “In fact, I’d wager we know him better than most.”

Her expression let nothing slip, as blank as a pressed sheet. “I suspect the Fleet Admiral would find some of it very useful.”

“It would be considered treasonous to withhold it,” Sengoku mused.

“Indeed.”

They looked at each other, before they withdrew from the door. Sengoku held out the bag. “Rice cracker?”

“Oh, thank you.”

―

The swaying of the ship caused her inkwell to slide back and forth across her desk, but her pen sat steady in her hand, poised over the blank page laid out before her.

She was writing her appeal, the one she planned to hold at the summit―her petition to abolish the Warlord system. And usually, it wasn’t hard for her to find the words, or the conviction to back them up: the hard facts, and the impassioned argumentation that wouldn’t take no for an answer; that ripped through outdated laws and bureaucratic indifference with a mind to leave the whole system stripped to its bare bones.

_ Your mother was just like you, _ her father had told her fondly, and a twinge dryly, after she’d delivered the very speech she was trying to commit to paper now, having breezed into the throne room after one of her training sessions with Pell, still full of adrenaline and covered in sweat, and announcing her intention of delivering her appeal at the upcoming Reverie.

Her father had shared a knowing look with his advisers, but a new light had winked in his eyes as he’d beheld her, and said, somehow both dry and achingly proud:

_ A sandstorm. _

Vivi stared at the blank page on the desk, and the peacock-quill in her hand. The words she’d carried in her breast felt elusive, not like they were hiding but like she couldn’t seem to focus on them, a distraction that sat like an itch in her fingers, in her whole body. It was stronger than usual, with the sandstone floors of the royal palace exchanged with creaking timbers, the sea invoking a restless, adventurous longing she thought she’d put behind her.

Her eyes fleeted to the portholes of her cabin, out to sea where they so often wandered, following her mind where it fled, from royal duties and expectations, speeches that needed to be written and banquets to be planned, to a warm wind raking its fingers through her hair, and salt in her nose, and no duties at all. There were no duties in that wide-open court, and no expectations of how she should think, and act. The sea had no king, yet.

Although even when it did get one, Vivi doubted he’d care much about any of those things.

The sound of voices raised in alarm dragged her out of her daydreaming, but it wasn’t until one pierced the quiet of her quarters that she reacted, the note of panic in it shattering all thoughts of speeches and seafaring alike.

“_Pirates!! We’re being boarded! _”

“_Protect the King and the Crown Princess!” _

She was out of her chair before the last words could even reach her, ink-flecked fingers unhooking the fastenings of her skirts, shucking the excess fabric along with the rest of her long-sleeved dress. The loose trousers beneath allowed her more freedom of movement, the deep maroon fabric stitched with gold thread, a commission for the palace seamstress who she’d sworn to secrecy. She hadn’t planned on going to Mariejois outfitted only for banquets and balls.

The weaved leather bodice didn’t offer a lot of protection, but she’d needed it to be as inconspicuous as possible under her dress. And anyway―if she was quick enough, it wouldn’t be necessary.

The wide curve of her mother’s scimitar cleaved the dust motes dancing in the air, her fingers wrapped around the ivory hilt with no less certainty than it had held her feather quill, and the blade was barely given a moment to breathe before she was making for the door.

Certain opponents couldn’t be defeated with facts and well-articulated arguments.

She saw Igaram emerging from his cabin, drawn by the commotion, before making a beeline for her. “Vivi-sama!” His gaze caught on the unsheathed blade in her hand, her jewels exchanged with ivory and steel, before noticing her determined approach. “What are you doing? You must go back to your―”

“I need an update on how many there are,” she cut him off, striding past him in the direction of the deck. “And their affiliation.”

He tried in vain to halt her progress, spluttering, “Vivi-sama! They are _ pirates_! Their identities aren’t important, what’s important is that you―”

“Where are Chaka and Pell?” she asked. “Are they with Father? Nevermind, I’ll find them.”

“Princess! _ Wait_―!”

She’d reached the hatch to the deck, and shoving it open, she strode outside.

The sun was setting over the dark sea, hues of honey and pomegranate bleeding through the silk sleeve of the sky. It was still a startling sight, so accustomed to a different kind of sea, whose cresting waves rarely changed, unlike these. But the surface was quiet, and the gloaming sky as vast as the one over her desert home. A cool evening breeze carried the smell of brine. Vivi felt it tugging at her trousers, as though eagerly pulling her forward.

She quickly noted the state of the deck. Their navy escort was down for the count, judging by the prone, uniformed shape on the planks, but Chaka and Pell hadn't drawn their weapons, which struck her as odd, before she noted that her father seemed similarly unfazed.

She might have asked what in the world they were all doing just standing around, when movement to her right caused her to react, her scimitar raised to intercept the weapon that swung for her, the _ clang _of metal ringing across the ship. Vivi felt it in her arm, but dug her heels in. She’d been trained by the royal guard; it would take more than that to overpower her.

The low sun was in her eyes, obscuring her view of her opponent where she squinted, the orange light painting their long hair in sunset shades, although just as the thought registered, another was right at its heels―that she _ knew _ that shade, and the wide, cat-like grin that didn’t need any assistance from the sun.

“I see life at court hasn’t dulled your reflexes,” Nami declared from the opposite end of the staff that blocked her blade. “And here I thought princesses were supposed to be draped over divans all day, being waited on hand and foot. I know that’s what I’d do.”

Her mouth worked, although it took her a second to locate her voice, stolen by the sight of that thief’s grin, which hadn’t changed in two years. “Nami!”

The scimitar went slack in her hand, and when she threw herself forward there were arms to catch her, more heavily freckled than she remembered, and her hair even longer than her own, but she smelled the same, of mikans and paper and ink, and when she wrapped her up in an embrace it was so tight it nearly lifted her feet right off the planks.

Her tears spilled over before she even realised she was crying, and if she’d thought her surprise had been great it had nothing on the feeling that filled her now, so forceful Vivi thought it might have taken her feet out if Nami hadn’t been holding her up.

She heard her chuckle, the thickness of it betraying her ease as Nami hugged her back and murmured, “It’s good to see you.”

A hundred thoughts filled her head, and she couldn’t decide which one to focus on, but drawing back to get a better look at her, if only to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, she found her solid and warm, no desert mirage but the real thing. They were _ all _real―all of the Straw-Hats on the deck of her ship, having reentered her life with about as much subtlety as the first time they’d met.

A hand grabbed hers where she held Nami by the shoulders, and before she could react Sanji was on one knee before her, declaring seriously, “Beholding your beauty, I now know the feeling of a desert wanderer coming at long last upon an oasis!”

Her laugh escaped with a sob, the joy that pushed it up her chest so immense she could do nothing else, as Nami shook her head at him, even as she couldn’t seem to help her own grin. “He’s right, though,” she said, as she looked her over. “You look beautiful, Vivi!”

“_Vivi!_”

Suddenly, Usopp and Chopper were there, until they were all gathered around her, delight in their voices as they took her in, even as she couldn’t decide which of them to focus on.

“You look like a real queen!”

“Yeah!” Usopp agreed. “You should have seen it when you came barging out!”

Zoro eyed the scimitar still in her hand, his mouth jutting in a smile that made her momentarily distracted from the single eye meeting hers, which Vivi thought she might have remarked on if he hadn’t said, “Most royals run in the opposite direction of trouble. Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

She was still crying, or laughing, she wasn’t exactly sure, but couldn’t seem to muster anything more articulate.

The rest of the Straw-Hats observed from the sides, seeming loath to interfere with the reunion. Vivi had a mind to greet them all, but didn’t know where to begin―had longed for this moment but hadn’t been prepared for it to happen so soon, or so wildly out of the blue, although knowing Luffy as she did, she didn’t know what she’d expected.

Her gaze found him then, having waited behind the others. And two years ago he would have been the first to greet her, but the difference came hand in hand with another―that it wasn’t just a pirate who’d boarded her ship, with all the authority of a king.

Grinning through her tears, “Are you here to kidnap me?” she asked him, and didn’t care if they heard the genuine question beneath her teasing.

Luffy just smiled, which struck her as out of character for him, but she was distracted by remarking on his behaviour by everything else that was going on.

Her eyes moved between them, and she couldn’t decide what to focus on, how they’d changed or the ways they’d stayed the same, but when she managed to collect herself enough to speak, what came out of her mouth was something else entirely.

“How did you even _ get _ here?” She didn’t know if it was a laugh, the thing that threatened at the bottom of her throat. “Last I heard, you were in the New World.”

Nami opened her mouth to answer, when Luffy pushed past her, this time with characteristic impatience. “No time to explain!”

Nami shoved his face away, ignoring his protest. “Don’t be rude.” Then to Vivi, after considering look at the rest of their crew, “But if you want the full story, we’ll be here a while, and as it stands, we’re a little pressed for time.”

Vivi was still too busy dealing with the fact that they were there to even have considered why. “For what?”

They all exchanged looks, which ought to have told her she was better off not asking.

Chaka and Pell did the same, confirming she wasn’t the only one thinking it.

That’s when she noticed the ship that had pulled up next to theirs. It was a different vessel than the one she remembered, bigger than Merry and with a lion figurehead, but it bore Luffy’s jolly roger, dancing in the breeze atop the mainmast.

It was also lilting a bit, like it had suffered some damage, and peering closer she noticed fissures in the boards, and that part of the balustrade was in splinters, like it had collided with something at great speed.

That’s when she noticed the lines extending from the mainmast, and from the bow and stern, attached to what looked like three large balloons, floating in the air above the ship. They almost appeared to be pulling the ship upward, although the anchors had been dropped to keep it from floating away.

“I’m fairly sure we’ve defied ten different laws of nature and at least a handful that could land us all in jail,” Nami began, leaning on her staff, and Vivi saw then that she looked a bit dishevelled. They all did. “And usually, I’d find a moment to celebrate my own ingenuity and the wonders of science―”

“Just _ your _ ingenuity, is it?” Usopp muttered.

“That’s cold, sis,” Franky deadpanned.

“―but like I mentioned before, time is somewhat of the essence, so if you’d go along with being kidnapped for like ten minutes, I’ll skip the how for now and instead tell you _ why _ we’re here.”

Still coming to grips with how they’d apparently crossed the Red Line, and the makeshift dirigible bobbing cheerfully in the water, Vivi looked between them all, the friends she remembered and those who hadn’t been with them two years ago, even if it still felt like she knew them, from the stories she’d read and the rumours that had reached even as far as her kingdom.

And knowing well the kind of stories they’d inspired in the two years they’d been apart, “I have a feeling I should be be worried,” Vivi said, and saw from their grins that she was probably right.

But even if she’d expected something truly outrageous, something that would warrant them being there, seeking _ her_, nothing could have prepared her for what Nami proceeded to say.

“We’re going to break into Mariejois during the Reverie.”

For a long beat, Vivi just stared at her, unsure if she’d heard right.

Chaka and Pell exchanged another look. “Was that what you’d guessed?” Pell murmured, smiling.

Chaka cracked a grin. “Not even close.”

Gaping now that she realised she _ had _heard her right, Vivi couldn’t even think of a response. But if she’d hoped they were joking, their entirely unapologetic expressions proved her cheerfully wrong, even as it didn’t make the declaration any easier to believe. And her disbelief was quickly replaced with confusion, as the full implication of Nami’s words dawned on her, but while she still couldn’t come up with a conceivable explanation, she remained at a loss.

She’d never known Luffy to concern himself with politics, and couldn’t even begin to guess what reason he might have for going to the Holy Land, and _now_ of all possible times.

Before she could open her mouth to ask, the baby Den Den Mushi in the unconscious marine’s pocket began chirping, drawing all their gazes towards it.

For a tense beat, no one moved, as they all stared at the officer’s prone shape, the snail’s warbling seeming unusually loud in the sudden quiet that had descended over the deck, as though they’d all in that moment realised the implication―pirates, boarding a royal vessel en route to the Reverie.

Walking towards him, Vivi extracted the snail. When she answered the call, a frantic voice came through from the other end. _ “Report! What happened? Were you attacked?” _

She looked out over the pirates on her ship―her crew who’d come back, only to announce they were going to do something beyond reckless, even for them.

Curiously, she felt none of the panic she probably should have.

“This is Vivi,” she said, and saw the snail blink. Her voice was steady, her tone mild and unconcerned.

_ “Princess?” _ The Den Den Mushi’s expression revealed surprise, then concern. “_Is everything―” _

“Everything is fine,” she said, with a conviction that didn’t leave room for question; a necessary skill of any future queen who didn’t seek to be a pushover. She caught her father’s smile from out of the corner of her eye. “Your man just had a bad reaction to some shellfish. He’ll be back on his feet once he…clears his system.”

A throat was cleared on the other end. _ “Right. Ah_…_very well. Would you like us to send backup? While he…recovers.” _

She looked at the Straw-Hats, a different crew come back than the one that had left her, but one thing that hadn’t changed was the feeling they brought with them, and that she felt the stirrings of now―that sense of utter certainty that whatever they had planned, they could pull it off. And that whatever else it promised, it would be one hell of an adventure.

Her restlessness from before was nowhere to be found. Instead, the familiar pricking under her skin this time answered to anticipation.

“Thank you, but no,” Vivi said, her gaze meeting those of the pirates who’d come back to her, all of them grinning.

“I have all the assistance I need.”

―

As it turned out, they were the ones seeking her help.

“So let me get this straight,” Vivi said, even as repeating it back didn’t make it sound any less outrageous. “You want me to sneak you into Mariejois so you can rescue _ Red-Hair?_”

They were in the galley, gathered around the long table. Sanji had taken it upon himself to cook them lunch, and had helped himself to their larder and the stove, although their own ship’s chef seemed too preoccupied observing what he was making to voice any complaints at the small usurping.

Their escort had been stowed away belowdecks until they could decide what to do with him. As it was, Vivi had her hands full dealing with the bomb they’d just dropped on her.

The morning’s paper lay open between them; the one that had announced the date for Red-Hair’s execution. Vivi hadn’t intended to stay long enough to observe it. Even if Red-Hair was a pirate, and one of the most powerful in the world, to celebrate the death of a man like a circus wasn’t something she wanted any part in.

“The execution is scheduled on the last day of the Reverie,” Nami said. “We’re either breaking him out before then, or we’re crashing it. We haven’t hammered out all the details yet.”

Vivi just stared at her, calmly relaying their plan of breaking into the Holy Land, as though it was something people did―as though anyone in their right mind would ever consider doing it _ during _ the Reverie.

Her father expressed less surprise than she did. Granted, he took most things in stride these days. And Luffy had helped liberate their kingdom from Crocodile. Honestly, Vivi didn’t know why _ she _ was surprised.

“Please,” Luffy said, the single-syllable word settling into the quiet, heavier than even the gravity of what they intended to do.

Her eyes softened, like her voice when she asked, “He’s important to you?”

Luffy nodded firmly. The simple gesture seemed to say more than if he’d prepared a speech, but then that had always been a particular strength of his.

She looked to her father, only to find him lifting his brows, as though to say the decision was hers to make.

“I owe them a debt,” Cobra said simply.

Igaram didn’t look as readily convinced, his words directed at Vivi, although she noticed that he sounded conflicted. “There’s an insurmountable risk to consider, Vivi-sama. If you agree to this, and are discovered to be aiding pirates in infiltrating the Holy Land―”

“Oh, I’ve already agreed,” Vivi said mildly. “I just feel this warrants at least a measure of healthy discretion.”

“We know it’s a lot to ask,” Nami said. “And that we’ll be compromising you all―”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Vivi cut her off, unfazed. “I can talk circles around most politicians.”

“She can,” her father supplied dryly, with murmured agreements from both Chaka and Pell.

Breezing past their amusement, “The ones attending the Reverie won’t be any different,” Vivi said. “It’s also a serious offence to falsely accuse someone from a noble family of conspiring with pirates. If anyone has suspicions, they won’t act unless they know for sure.”

Then, raising her brows at them, “And do you guys not remember how you left Alabasta? I’ve been lying about my association with pirates for two years. I’m worried about _ you_. This is the Holy Land. The Domain of the Gods is sacrosanct. Ordinary people aren’t allowed to set foot inside, let alone pirates. If they catch you―”

“Then we’ll go from there,” Nami finished for her. “And with any luck, they won’t.”

“You’re basing this on _ luck_?”

“In our defence, we don’t have much else to go on,” Usopp pointed out.

“Yeah,” Chopper agreed. “There’s not really a precedent for this.”

“We also don’t know what the inside of the city looks like,” Zoro said.

“Or how we’re getting back out,” Sanji added, as he put a steaming dish on the table, before lighting himself a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “If there is a way out once you’re caught.”

“Capture is an exceedingly likely prospect,” Robin mused mildly. “One can only imagine the punishment for a transgression of this scale.”

“My guess is it’ll be super excruciating,” Franky agreed.

“Torture at the hands of the Celestial Dragons is truly a bone-chilling prospect,” Brook supplied, taking a sip from his cup of tea.

Vivi looked at Luffy, who only met her gaze. “I’m going,” he said simply.

He’d changed, she thought, observing his calmer composure, a curious weight about him now that he hadn’t had when they’d parted ways. Although even thinking it, she still spied the familiar, restless twitch of his fingers where he’d crossed his arms over his chest; the tell-tale signs of someone used to taking _ action_, but he was deliberately holding back. It said something about the stakes―and about Red-Hair.

She considered the newspaper, and the morning’s headline. Red-Hair’s face was featured on the front page again, the shot that looked like it belonged on the cover of a glossy magazine, those breathtaking features deepened by an enigmatic expression that raised more questions than it answered, about a man already shrouded in rumours. He was a popular subject at court; they’d been discussing his capture for days.

Vivi didn’t know a lot about him, aside from the fact that he was one of the strongest pirates in the world, and a former member of the Pirate King’s crew. The Emperors of the New World hadn’t concerned her before they’d started calling Luffy the same, although watching him from across the table, she couldn’t help but feel the difference between them, even as she also couldn’t deny that he was _ different_. The sprigs of that calm authority he’d occasionally demonstrate had shot deeper roots, the weight of his post comfortable on his shoulders now. Vivi recognised it, because hers was the same.

Smoothing her fingers over the paper, she considered the announcement. “I wonder,” she said then.

Nami’s brows dipped. “What?”

She shook her head, her brow furrowing as she fiddled with the corner of the paper, her gaze fixed on Red-Hair’s photograph, observing the firm jaw and the black stubble of his beard. He really was stupidly handsome, but that wasn’t what bothered her. “There’s just something about it that doesn’t sit right with me. I thought about it when I first heard the news that they’d captured him.”

They were all looking at her now, her father included, his expression reflecting her thoughts back as she explained, “The Reverie begins in a few days, and it lasts a whole week. That’s a long time to keep someone like Red-Hair locked up.”

“You’re wondering why they haven’t just killed him already,” Zoro said from where he was sitting, his arms tucked into his sleeves where he leaned back against the wall behind him.

Vivi nodded. She was trying to put the unease she’d been feeling into words. “It’s a huge risk, keeping him in the city with all the nobles about to gather. I know they want to make it an event, but could you imagine what would happen if he escaped during the conference? Even if they have practically the whole navy fleet stationed there, it just seems so…_reckless_. It makes me wonder if they have something on him. Something that’s made them confident he won’t try anything.”

Robin hummed. “Leverage?”

“You know him, Luffy,” Sanji said, making them all look at him where he blinked. “Any idea what it could be?”

Luffy screwed his face up, before he shook his head. “Shanks is really strong,” he said simply, as though that was explanation enough, but then Vivi had thought the same thing.

“Something of an understatement,” Chaka mused. “But if not a prison cell, what would keep a man like Red-Hair? If that is in fact the case.”

“Something that would make freedom an acceptable cost,” Nami said quietly, with a weight of bitter understanding. “I can name one thing.”

Vivi frowned, considering her words and their implication, knowing well what Nami was suggesting, but if Red-Hair had a family, it wasn’t common knowledge.

“It doesn’t matter what they have,” Luffy said then, with a finality that declared the decision already made. He was looking at Nami when he spoke, as though he’d heard the same thing Vivi had, and it was _ to _ her he said it, the declaration ringing with an old promise, “We’re saving him.”

Nami didn’t reply, but her smile wavered, a moment of mutual understanding between them that wasn’t put into words, but that didn’t need to be for Vivi to catch it.

She caught a smile fleeting across her father’s mouth as he remarked musingly, “Spoken like a decree.”

The rest of the Straw-Hats looked in agreement. And there was that sensation again―the anticipation that sang through her veins at the implication, the sheer, _ scandalous _ reality of even discussing something like this. Even faced with the risk and the possible consequences, the fear that should make anyone think twice, her heart didn’t stumble, as steady as her hands where she’d placed them on the table.

As though she’d caught some of her feelings on her face, Nami’s smile curved. “Missed us?”

Vivi could only grin, and straightening in her seat, “So,” she said, addressing them all. “You want to sneak into the Reverie as part of my retinue.”

Nami smiled. “You’re already familiar with going undercover,” she said, with a pointed glance at Igaram, who cleared his throat, startled. “Only this time, you won’t be the one pretending.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Pell admitted. “In any court, a servant has the unique advantage of moving unseen. Mariejois might believe itself exempt from the mortal deficiencies of lesser kingdoms, but it follows the same rules. Those at the top rarely pay attention to those below them.”

Vivi hummed. “For the Celestial Dragons, that includes everyone who isn’t one.”

“Good,” Nami said, with a look at Luffy. “Given your history with them, the less they notice, the higher our chances of actually pulling this off.” Turning to Vivi, she asked, “What about your family?”

Vivi shook her head. “I doubt they’ll be watching us very closely. We relinquished our connection to the Holy Land a long time ago. And anyway, rumour has it the Ryugu Kingdom will be participating this year. That should keep them distracted from paying too much attention to us.”

Chaka and Pell exchanged glances. Her father had found something suddenly interesting on the other side of the porthole.

“What?” Vivi asked, sensing there was something she’d missed.

When none of them volunteered an answer, she crossed her arms. “If this is about the suitors, I already said I wasn’t interested.”

_ That _ had Sanji sitting up straighter, his expression serious. “Suitors?”

“Something you’ve neglected to tell us, Vivi?” Nami asked, grinning.

Vivi didn’t share their amusement, and shot an accusing look at her father. “I’m not going to the Reverie to find a husband.”

“The public will be of a different opinion,” Cobra said patiently. “It is the unfortunate consequence of being a young woman of marriageable age.”

Igaram nodded. “The pr―” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Ma~ma~ma~!” Then, “The press has been feeding its readers’ expectations for weeks. The last time you attended, you were young enough to be spared the worst of it, but this year you are eighteen. The assumption is that by the end of the conference, you will be engaged to be wed.”

Turning to Cobra, and sounding suddenly eager, “The young widow of the tantalisingly elusive Takagari Kingdom is another favourite this year. She’s rumoured to be so lovely, the late king kept her hidden away for fear that anyone who saw her would fall in love with her. No one’s ever seen her face! You can only imagine their excitement.” And to Vivi, who could only gape, “I expect you will both be under a great deal of scrutiny.” Then, noting their expressions, “What?” he asked, as he straightened a bit in his seat. “I enjoy the gossip column on occasion.”

“Well I don’t,” Vivi said. “This is supposed to be a political summit, not a meat market!”

“It is what it is, my daughter,” Cobra said, with the weight of an old disagreement.

“He’s right,” Nami told her, but when Vivi looked at her with betrayal, only shrugged. “The suitors will be there whether you like it or not. Better to be prepared for the inevitable. Maybe you could find a way to use it to your advantage?”

“You know what would effectively shut down advances from potential suitors?” Sanji interjected. “The joyous announcement of your engagement to a dashingly handsome pri―”

“Anyway,” Vivi said. “There is one thing I’ve been thinking about. What do we do about our escort?” Chopper had given him a sedative which should allegedly keep him knocked out until they reached the Red Port, but then there was the matter of what they’d do once they got there. “He’ll have to report to the navy officials when we arrive.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” her father said. “Once he wakes, we’ll simply tell him we fought off the pirates.”

“You don’t think he’ll notice that you’re suddenly more people than you were?” Usopp asked.

Igaram was the one who answered this time, surprising them by wryly remarking, “Judging by his behaviour thus far, I’m not convinced he knows there are other people on this ship save the princess.”

Chaka and Pell echoed the sentiment with twin sounds of annoyance. Everyone else looked at Vivi, who dropped her head into her hands with a long-suffering sigh.

“It raises our chances of getting in,” Nami conceded, musingly. “I don’t know how well a disguise would hold up under scrutiny, but we don’t really have any alternative.”

“I have a method that could work,” Sanji said, with an inflection that told her whatever it was, he’d rather not resort to using it. “But it would only be me.” Then with an entirely different pitch, his voice raised, “And I’d much rather play the part of your prince, Vivi-chan~!”

Nudging him out of the way, “Your suit_ could _ be useful later,” Nami agreed. “But we don’t know how long we’ll have to stay there. If it ends up being several days, the best thing would be to be able to move around without having to hide.”

Vivi nodded. “There’ll be hundreds of nobles attending, and whole families bringing their servants and personal guard. Blending in shouldn’t be a problem as long as you don’t do anything to draw attention to yourselves.”

Everyone looked at Luffy, who blinked. “What?”

“We’ll have to work on that,” Nami murmured.

“There is also the small matter of your recent notoriety,” Cobra said, his brows raised at Luffy this time. “An Emperor cannot simply walk through the gates of the Holy Land.”

“Has anyone tried?” Usopp asked, a hopeful note in his voice. “Maybe this is one of those cases where everyone thinks it’s impossible so no one tries but it’s actually not that hard?”

The looks he got were answer enough, and his shoulders slumped as he muttered, “Hoping was worth a shot.”

“In any case,” Cobra continued, “I cannot name a man bold enough to dare. Such a breach would take an extraordinary amount of skill and subterfuge.”

“Not his strongest suit,” Nami agreed. For his part, Luffy seemed unapologetic. “And then there’s you, Sanji-kun.”

Having come to stand by their table, Vivi watched Sanji wipe his hands on his apron. “The Germa Kingdom isn’t sending any representatives to the Reverie this year, which further complicates things if I’m recognised.” The next part was muttered under his breath, “I doubt they’ll care that I’d wash my hands off that shitty name if I could.”

The reminder made her want to ask―the Vinsmoke family wasn’t exactly anonymous, and Sanji hadn’t mentioned a connection two years ago―but curbing the impulse, Vivi told them, “Then you two will have to be the most careful you’re not discovered. But as long as your faces are covered, it should be fine. The biggest obstacle will be getting to Red-Hair without anyone catching wind of what you’re up to.”

She paused, her mind churning as she thought of how they would even go about it. Pangaea Castle was heavily fortified, and security was always heightened during the Reverie, even excluding the imprisonment of one of the strongest pirates in the world in its dungeons. Breaking in would be next to impossible. Unless―

“There’s going to be a masquerade,” she said, and saw them look at her. “In the castle, towards the end of the conference. If you want to rescue Red-Hair before the execution, that’s probably your best shot. You won’t have to break into the castle itself, just the dungeons.” Although even saying it, she knew there was no ‘just’ anything in Mariejois, but it would be an opportunity. And knowing this crew, that was usually all they needed.

“Knowing the itinerary for the conference would definitely help,” Nami said. “Speaking as a former burglar, I’d prefer knowing the layout of the castle, too, but I doubt you have the blueprints stashed somewhere.”

“They don’t send them out with the invitations, unfortunately,” Vivi said, and caught Nami’s grin. Given what they were discussing, which amounted to nothing short of treason, she really should treat it more seriously, but it was hard just keeping herself from smiling. She’d forgotten the effect they had, her crew. “And I’ve only been there once. I don’t remember it that well.”

She looked at her father, but, “My only indiscretion in the past has been embarrassing your mother with my dancing skills,” Cobra replied. “Although I’ve yet to be thrown in the dungeons for it, so I’m afraid I’m only familiar with the parts of the keep accessible to visitors.”

“We’ll find our way once we get there,” Sanji said, and with a sidelong look offered to Zoro. “Those of us who aren’t directionally challenged, at least.”

“Oye.”

“I wonder what it looks like inside,” Chopper said.

Nami made a longing sound. “I wonder what’s in the treasury.”

“I wonder if I might be contracting a fever,” Usopp muttered.

Observing them, Vivi couldn’t help her smile.

She looked to Luffy, who’d been unusually quiet. His eyes were fixed on the newspaper, and Red-Hair’s photograph. “Luffy?”

Blinking, he looked up. “What?” When he noticed them all watching him, he shifted in his seat. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Her eyes softened, recognising that his distraction wasn’t due to his short attention span. And she didn’t know his whole history with Red-Hair, could never have guessed he had a connection to a pirate like that, let alone one that would warrant such extraordinary measures to save him, but she recognised the look in his eyes―imagined she’d looked much the same once, when the people she’d loved had been threatened.

And after what had happened with Ace…

She looked at the newspaper again. Red-Hair’s face stared back, as enigmatic as the rumours about him suggested, and just a few hours ago he hadn’t been anything to Vivi, had only been a pirate, and one with a terrifying amount of power. And she didn’t know if he deserved the charges against him, or if he was truly as honourable as the rumours said.

He was important to Luffy. And that was all that mattered, when he’d once saved her kingdom, not because it was the right thing to do or because it would benefit him somehow, but because it had been important to _ her_.

“We’re two days’ voyage from Mariejois,” Vivi said, and saw them all look at her. Directly across the long table, Luffy’s gaze held hers with a new focus. “Once we reach the Red Port, we won’t be able to discuss this openly. We’ll have to go through all the eventualities before we arrive so we’re prepared for anything that might happen once we’re inside. We need to go over our contingency plans, our stories in case there’s an investigation, and the potential fallout.”

Luffy held her gaze, unwavering. And he looked like a king then, Vivi thought, and wondered if history would remember this alliance, and how it would remember her, and her actions.

Her gaze swept around the table. “But before we do anything,” she said, taking them all in, the same faces that had kept her company for two years, looking back from the wanted posters in her private chambers, each and every one unmistakeable.

“If you’re going in as part of my entourage, you need to look the part.”

―

He took one look at the outfit held out to him.

“No,” Ben said.

Buggy kept his arms crossed, equally unbending. “It’s the only thing in your size, you damn tree, unless you want the sequin leotard." It was said with a nod to the offending piece in question, glittering in the light piercing the portholes of the galley.

When Ben still didn’t budge, Buggy threw his hands up. “Look, do you wanna get into the Holy Land or not? Because you’re going in as part of _ my _ crew. You said yourself you needed to get in without anyone recognising you.”

“He’s got a point, Ben,” Yasopp pointed out, from where he was busy painting his face. Ben opted not to mention the open leather vest and disturbingly snug matching trousers he’d adopted with surprisingly little fuss. A brightly patterned headscarf held back his trademark dreads, dyed for the occasion in a more muted colour than his natural blond. A bandolier of glass throwing knives completed the look.

Ben eyed the one they’d selected for him: a dark red velvet tailcoat with gleaming brass buttons, and an accompanying waistcoat in black and gold brocade, and polished knee-high boots. An elaborate cane was propped against the bulkhead next to it, intended for nothing but flair, as he had no trouble walking.

"Doctor's orders," Doc reminded him, as though he'd read his thoughts, walking past him with a drink that judging by the smell was either medical-grade alcohol or a potent homebrew. Ben ignored him, like the healing wound in his side, and discreetly shifted his weight a bit to ease the pressure.

He met Buggy's glare. “I’m not wearing the top hat.”

Several gasps sounded from Buggy’s crew. “But that’s the crowning piece!”

“You’ll actually look stupider _ without _ the hat,” Galdino supplied, unhelpfully. “It’s called an ensemble for a reason.”

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Remember who you’re doing this for,” Yasopp said, a look shared between them, and had the situation been different, Ben thought she might have been tickled by the knowledge of what kind of power she possessed. As it was, he doubted she’d even want to speak to him after this.

But he couldn’t falter now. Even knowing what she must be going through, ensuring she was safe took precedent.

Without a word, he grabbed the shirt that was held out to him, although no one seemed particularly surprised that he’d caved. Then again, they all had a lot on their minds.

Adjusting the cuffs, Ben looked across them all, gathered in the galley of Buggy’s ship with the rest of his crew. Those with the more serious injuries were staying behind, although getting them to agree to it hadn’t been easy, but the success of their operation depended on more than just a desire to save their captain, and like with Makino, certain decisions were necessary, regardless of personal feelings.

Aside from Buggy and Galdino, only a select group of Buggy’s men were going with them. Even employed by the World Government, a Warlord would be scrutinised at an event like the Reverie, and they couldn’t bring too big a group or it would arouse suspicion. And so they were momentarily, technically, part of Buggy’s crew.

“I honestly can’t decide if Boss would think this was hilarious, or a betrayal of everything he stands for,” Yasopp mused, only for Buggy to point an accusatory finger at him.

“Hey, that asshole should only be so lucky! You know he once had the audacity to ask me to join _ his _ crew?” He crossed his arms, and muttered, “If you ask me, this is karma.”

His voice wavered a bit as he said it, but Ben made no comment, only exchanged a glance with Yasopp, before he made to button up his shirt. He was the only one who hadn’t finished dressing, and spared a dry look at the others where they waited, in a garish assortment of fabrics and colours. Someone had put a fez on Monstar.

Thinking about Yasopp’s remark, even Ben couldn’t say for certain what their captain would have thought.

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this,” Buggy said, as though he was the one who’d drawn the shortest straw, as Ben warily eyed the obscene brocade vest. “If we're discovered, _I’ll_ be the one on the execution platform next.”

“No one is forcing you,” Ben said, shrugging on the coat, and set his jaw when the action pulled at his stitches. Adjusting it with a little more care, he ignored Doc's look from across the galley. The coat was fitted across the shoulders, and a little more restricting than what he normally preferred. It would take some time getting used to.

He still hadn’t touched the top hat, and ignored the eager pirate who held it out.

Buggy’s glare had lessened a fraction. And he had no retort to that, although seemed determined to put up a fight about his apparent willingness to assist them.

They were a few days’ voyage from the Red Port, and they still had plans left to make for what to do when they arrived. Buggy wasn’t formally invited to the Reverie itself, but had received orders to assemble with the other Warlords, on account of the need for heightened security measures. Given what happened two years ago, the extra measures weren’t unwarranted, although something still felt off about their sudden willingness to allow former pirates entry into the Holy Land, even as Ben couldn’t put his finger on what it was that bothered him about it.

But Buggy was right: they needed a way in, and this was their best shot.

His gaze drifted to the morning paper, spread out on a nearby table, and the latest news of Shanks' execution, which had officially been scheduled to occur on the last day of the Reverie. Buggy had been in an unpredictable mood since the announcement, but then they’d all reacted to it differently. And Ben had known it was coming, but it was something else to see it printed in ink: a curious finality about it that drove home the fact that it was actually happening. That it was their captain who was going to the gallows.

“This will be my third execution,” Buggy said then, a curious gravity in his voice, devoid of its usual, shrill pitch. “Feels a lot like the first one.”

“There will be similarities to Roger’s,” Ben said. “The navy will make sure of it.”

“Think they’re trying to rectify their mistake from last time?” Yasopp asked.

“It’s one hell of a do-over,” Doc mused. He wore no disguise, but then he was staying behind with their injured. “But the Reverie certainly gives them the right stage. This will be history, no matter the outcome.”

“They’re only looking for one outcome,” Ben said. “Akainu will make sure they come out of this the victors this time.”

“They know Red-Hair’s reputation,” Galdino agreed. “Drawing parallels to the Pirate King would be the natural strategy in turning the public's opinion against him.”

“If you can’t erase someone from history, make sure you’re the one writing it,” Yasopp agreed.

“Like they did with Captain,” Buggy spoke up, drawing their eyes. His were on the newspaper, his features darkened. “At least Shanks doesn’t have a family.”

Several looks were exchanged. Ben said nothing.

Buggy didn’t seem to have noticed, as he scoffed, “Not that I can picture him settling down. Bastard was always going on about never fastening his moorings to a single port. And who’d be stupid enough to marry him, anyway?”

Just about their whole crew opened their mouths, indignant, but a sharp look from Ben had them snapping shut.

“What?” Buggy asked, having caught the end of the brief exchange. Galdino was looking between them all, frowning.

“Nothing,” Ben said. “You’re right. It’s a good thing he doesn't have anyone to leave behind.”

He saw them look away, their jaws tight, but then they all felt that that’s what they were doing―leaving her behind. And they had to believe him truly cold-blooded to be able to live with the decision, and to not buckle under the guilt. But Ben couldn’t afford to feel his remorse, even for a second. He had to stand firm in his decision, so they could feel regret for leaving her.

The truth was that he would have given anything for just a few minutes of her counsel―that quick wit and calm, grounded heart, and for her to tell him he was doing the right thing. She was a better strategist than she gave herself credit, and offered a unique perspective, perhaps exactly because she didn’t belong to the same world, and didn’t look at it with the same eyes, although when she did look, she saw more clearly than most.

But he couldn’t afford to call her, least of all for the sake of his own weakness.

Buggy turned for the door, likely to escape the tense mood. “I’m going to check our course.” To his men, he snapped, “To your stations!”

“_Aye, Captain Buggy!_”

They responded without delay, but then for all their eccentricities, Buggy commanded an efficient crew, and aside from their captain’s habitual grousing, no one had uttered a single protest concerning what they were about to do, as though they were all wholly prepared to commit treason and more besides. As far as loyalty to their captain went, Ben had seen few crews as unequivocally devoted.

Well. There was one other, but then there was a reason they were all here.

On his way out, Galdino paused in the doorway, his gaze meeting Ben’s. For a brief moment, he looked like he was about to say something, before he decided against it, and turning to follow the rest of his crew, it left them alone in the galley.

A tense lull passed, as Ben fastened his cufflinks, before Yasopp spoke up, “You know, I don’t think Boss would mind if you told him about her. Buggy is practically family.”

Murmurs of agreement sounded from around the compartment, but Ben didn’t flinch. “The fewer people know, the safer she is,” he said simply. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Buggy, but when it came to her life, and Ace’s, he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Yeah,” Yasopp sighed, leaning back against the table as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess you’re right. Just feels wrong, like we’re pretending they don’t exist.”

“As far as the World Government is concerned, they can’t exist,” Ben pointed out.

When their expressions still didn’t relent, he turned towards them, and he hated that he had to play this card, but it was necessary, because they had to understand what they'd be up against. It was imperative that they knew that it _couldn’t_ come to that―the choice even Ben didn’t think he had it in himself to make.

“If forced to choose, who would you save?” he asked them, and saw how their eyes widened, as their murmured dissent stilled with a breath.

Yasopp opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Ben forged on, the words hard, without feeling―as though he didn't feel everything. “If it comes to a decision between him or her, who would you choose?”

Yasopp’s jaw was clenched. “Boss would choose to save them,” he said, but even as he did, Ben saw that he understood what he was about to ask next.

Ben held his gaze, although the question was directed at them all. “And Makino?”

Dragging his fingers over his face, smudging the kohl lining his eyes, Yasopp cursed. “_Fuck_, I really need a drink.”

“There'll be champagne in the fountains once we reach Mariejois,” Ben said.

Yasopp snorted into his hand. For a brief spell, it was a genuine laugh. “Boss would love that. We’ll have to try and stop by on our way out. Should just dunk him in, now that I think about it. He’ll probably be needing a bath, given where they’re keeping him.”

The small levity lifted some of the oppressive mood, even as it was a brief respite. The newspaper laid open on the table didn’t allow them to forget what was at stake, and that they were doing this for more than just themselves―that it was for the girl they’d kept waiting for the last time. Ben would make sure of it.

“How do you think she’s holding up?” Lucky asked, when a long beat of silence had passed. Despite the cheerful clown nose that had replaced his own, the question was anything but funny.

No one answered, but from their wrought expressions, Ben wagered they’d all been thinking about the same thing.

“Knowing her,” he said at length, willing the image to the surface, although it required no effort, remembering that fiercely enduring heart, and that deceptively slender spine, straight as steel as she saw them off, again and again. Ten years of waiting hadn’t been able to bend that will, resilient as water. When it met an obstacle, it always found a new path.

“She’s surviving.”

―

A soft breeze brushed her cheeks, a kiss softer than his, lacking the coarse stubble of his beard and the width of his grin where it stretched along her skin, his laughter warm and belly-deep.

Breathing in through her nose, Makino redirected her thoughts, focusing on the pull of the sails, expanding like her lungs as the wind filled them and she tried to anchor her mind, to keep it from drifting where it stubbornly wanted to go, across the sea and the gentler waters of her mind, as though she could find him there if she only looked.

“Concentrate.”

Sabo’s voice interrupted her thoughts, like moorings tugging an errant sloop back to shore, and Makino let go of her breath.

“I’m still not sure what this is supposed to achieve,” she said, even as she didn’t open her eyes.

She sensed his amusement, no doubt at her uncharacteristic impatience, remembering her many lessons with Ace, when his brother had been the distracted one. “Just indulge me.”

Her jaw tightened at the words. Shanks had said the same thing once, although she didn’t know what he’d gotten out of it, but remembered that he’d been delighted.

She tried not to let the small familiarity distract her, when she was already having a hard time keeping herself from thinking about him.

Clenching her eyes shut, she breathed in deep, filled her belly until it hurt, before she let it go. And she still wasn’t sure what she was doing, but thought of the time on Leodes’ ship, and Touya, when she’d retreated to that place within her. That perfect quiet.

When she opened her eyes, the deck was gone, replaced by a black void. Crystal clear water submerged her ankles, even as she couldn’t feel it, could only see the silver ripples in the surface, from where she stood to where Sabo was standing a few feet away.

If he could see the same thing, he looked unsurprised. “This is _your_ domain,” he told her, which answered her first question. “Always remember that.”

Curious, she looked around them. She could still feel the breeze, and the ship where it glided over the water. Belowdecks, there was a steady stream of movement, and she could pin names to presences now, as easily as she could picture their faces in her mind.

Curling her fingers into her palms, Makino tried her best to pretend she wasn’t completely freaking out.

“Before we begin, I want to check something,” Sabo said. Makino felt his intrigue, but didn’t know what was the cause before he told her, “You mentioned that when you left Goa, there was a group of marines who passed right by you. You thought it was weird.” His smile curved. “I want you to disappear.”

Her brows knitted. She didn’t think she’d heard him right. “Disappear?”

“Hide your presence.”

Looking down at herself, she held out her arms. “How?”

His grin was the most helpful he was willing to be, apparently, as Sabo said, “Just try.”

Makino allowed her hands to drop to her sides, but didn’t argue. He seemed so determined, as though he was utterly sure she would be able to do it, even if she had no idea of where to even begin.

But remembering what he’d said about the marines, she thought back to when she’d been sitting on that bench in the plaza, how she’d wanted so desperately to disappear―to trickle away like water through the cobblestones, until she was invisible.

She still wasn't wholly sure what she was doing, but followed that feeling, although didn’t let fear spur her this time but something more familiar. The way she felt on a busy night, flowing between the tables, undetected.

Looking at him found Sabo grinning, and Makino knew she must have done something right, even as the feeling was as elusive as she felt―as though it would run through her fingers if she tried to grab it.

Letting go, she had to catch herself from staggering forward, a wave of dizziness sweeping through her. She felt suddenly sapped for strength, but didn’t want to tell him that. She wanted to be useful―to be able to_ do _ something, even just to hide herself. But if she could find that feeling, if it could become second nature, the way his haki was to Shanks, she’d be vastly more prepared to infiltrate the Holy Land.

She breathed through the dizzy spell. She’d been feeling poorly for a few days now, seasick despite their smooth sailing through East Blue, although mercifully, she hadn’t felt the need to throw up since early this morning. It helped, being in the void.

Sabo shifted his weight, although he still stood at a casual repose. Makino was grateful for the moment to collect herself, before he said, “Let’s try an offensive tactic this time.”

“I’m not attacking you,” Makino said. Just the idea was absurd. “And can observation even do that? I thought it was a passive ability.”

“It is,” Sabo said. “For most people.” But instead of explaining what that even meant, “Focus on me,” he instructed. “What do you see?”

She tried to do as he said, shutting out everything else, the creaking of the ship and the sea beneath them, the crew above and belowdecks, her focus narrowed to a single point, until she saw.

Her breath caught, as in concentrating she began to notice things, bit by bit―how his heart beat, the pace and rhythm and the way it pumped blood through his veins, and his lungs where they expanded with his breaths. The almost imperceptible way he favoured his left side. His heightened body temperature, and the devil fruit, which felt at once like an anomaly and like it had been merged with his genetic code. Reaching for his presence felt a bit like holding her hand above a candle flame.

Seeing it all, she wondered how she hadn’t noticed before, all the little things that seemed so obvious to her now.

Sabo’s satisfied expression told her it hadn’t missed him. “Now find a way to disable me.”

She blinked, for a moment startled right out of her concentration. “What?”

He held his arms out, as though to indicate that he was open for attack, even as she had no weapons on her. “I have no guards up,” he said, that curious gleam in his eyes. “Right now, I just want to see what you can do.”

Makino hesitated. “Sabo, I don’t know about this…”

His grin did nothing to alleviate her concerns. “It’ll be fine.” When she still looked unsure, “I’m a pretty proficient haki user,” Sabo assured her. “I just want to see what you’re capable of.”

Still unnerved by her newfound abilities, Makino wasn’t wholly convinced it was as safe as he promised, but he did have a point. He was proficient in two types of haki, and knew more about observation than she did, who’d only actively started using it recently.

Straightening a bit, she considered him where he stood, a casual stance, as though he was just waiting to see what she would do, even as Makino couldn’t guess what he even expected this test to yield.

She focused on his presence―tried to see if she could spot something that was out of place, or anything at all that suggested some kind of weakness, but he was young and physically healthy, his heartbeat strong and steady, and even if she did find something, she wouldn’t know what to do with it. She hadn’t been trained to fight. What did it help her to know that he favoured his left side?

Her brow furrowed, as she tried to shift her focus, to look further than just his physical shape, the way she’d done without thinking back on that ship, seeing past him instead, and―_there_. Like an exposed wire, and all she had to do was reach past his defences and pluck it loose.

Before her eyes, he changed, and the young man who’d stood there a second ago looked like a boy again, his blond curls unruly and his cheeks ruddied with a healthy flush, no burn scar but a front tooth missing.

Startled, Makino tried to stop, but wasn’t quick enough to pull back.

She had been a stream that time on the ship, trickling through the cracks in her opponent’s guard. Now her adversary was wide open, and she was a deluge, nothing holding her back as she flowed forward, a part of herself extended from her mind, although where Touya had thrown up his guard at the last second, Sabo did nothing to stop her, causing her to overreach.

It felt like plunging through a wall of water, but when she emerged, heaving for breath, found herself no longer in the void or on Dragon's ship, but in a room she didn't recognise. It was sparsely furnished, with a beautiful, high ceiling and hardwood floors, and she was staring out the window at a familiar sky.

Blinking, she had the sudden and inexplicable thought that they weren’t _her_ eyes, but wasn’t given the chance to follow it further as a myriad of impressions rushed towards her, like a wave carrying her out to sea―

Metal bars covered the window she'd been looking out a moment ago, before the walls of the room fell away, and the floor, taking her with it, and she was about to cry out when she staggered to her knees in the dirt, and it took her a second to recognise Grey Terminal, the heaps of garbage and the open sky, wholly without bars, and she’d never felt so _happy―_as when the cold river rushed past her ankles, a wiggling fish caught between her hands as a small weight clung to her back, her ears filled with shrieking laughter she _knew_―and then the forest was gone, the narrow paths opening up to a barren island and a white-stone fortress, but the feeling in her gut was the same as before, _home_―and in the same breath of thinking it, she was looking down at a familiar shape, bent over a table asleep, her hat and goggles askew, and watched as hands that weren't her own reached to put a coat across her―and then they weren't holding a coat but a newspaper, white-knuckled where they gripped it, and someone was _screaming_―although it was swallowed by the wind as she found herself suddenly in a cabin in a sea of trees, her sails pulled taut, and she watched as the green crowns of the trees became cresting waves, and felt freedom in the warm spray against her cheeks, before it got hotter, as her vision erupted in a cloud of fire―

The heat knocked against her so hard she cried out, stumbling back. She hit the balustrade behind her, the contact knocking her breath loose, and causing the world to come crashing back, as Makino found herself on the deck of Dragon's ship.

Sabo was on the opposite side, on his ass, his eyes wide-sprung where they stared back at her.

The other people on deck had stopped what they were doing to observe them. Makino felt their curiosity, the sudden intensity of their feelings causing her to flinch, like her nerves were over-sensitised, her inner sight reacting to the world like eyes to sunlight that had grown used to the dark.

The blistering pain along the left side of her face made it hard to think, making her bite off a cry with her teeth, and her fingers shook as she reached to touch her cheek, but no bubbling blisters greeted her fingertips, just her own skin, soft and unmarred.

Bile rose in her throat without warning, and she barely had time to pull herself to her feet before she was emptying her stomach over the railing.

When it finally relented, her ears were ringing, and her throat felt sore from throwing up. The phantom pain in her cheek had eased to a dull throbbing, and with a shuddering breath, Makino sank to her knees.

“Okay,” Sabo breathed out, as he pushed to his feet. He sounded a little shaken. “That was seriously unnerving and mildly invasive. Great!” He was grinning, even as she heard that his voice wavered. “Try to remember what you just did. Next time, I’ll have my guard up. See if you can―”

He was cut off by the morning’s paper, hitting the deck between them.

Still struggling to collect herself, it took Makino a second to catch up. Her mouth tasted like bile, and she’d sweated right through the thin cotton of her blouse and her bodice, although even in the balmy breeze, she was shivering.

Her eyes fixed on the rolled-up newspaper, but when she made no attempt to reach for it, Sabo bent down to pick it up. Makino watched as he removed the strap, before unfolding it to read the front page.

His expression didn’t change, but she felt the difference―the slight shift in his presence, and she knew then what the paper would say.

Pushing shakily to her feet, she brushed her trembling hands over her skirt, and was glad when he didn’t try to hide the paper from her, only held it out for her to read.

Shanks’ wanted poster photo was on the front page, alongside a picture of Mariejois. The headline bore the announcement she’d been dreading, even as she’d known it was coming.

“The last day of the Reverie,” Sabo said, echoing the words on the page, even as Makino was barely reading the article, her gaze having fastened on his photograph, as though to a lifeline.

“Well,” Sabo said then, with a curious inflection. “Guess it’s time to let you in on the plan.”

She looked up, surprised. They’d avoided talking about it around her, no doubt as a precaution, in the event that she got cold feet and backed out, but she hadn’t pressed them for information about how they planned to get into the Holy Land, let alone what they’d do once they were there. She’d figured they’d tell her eventually, and maybe the less she knew of the specifics, the better.

And maybe a small part of her had held out hope that it wouldn’t be necessary―that she wouldn’t have to know what they were planning, because one day she’d wake and the newspaper would announce him escaped, and there’d be no need for her to even go to Mariejois.

But with a date set for his execution, it felt suddenly much closer―and she felt then how poorly prepared she was, to the point where she didn’t even know how they intended to get in.

“Come on,” Sabo said, with a nod to the hold. Makino hesitated. She was still a little shaken from what had happened, even as she was reasonably sure she wasn’t about to throw up again.

“Where are we going?”

He looked back over his shoulder, a grin flashed that she had half a mind to point out was the exact opposite of encouraging as he chirped, “To show you our tickets in.”

He gave no further explanation, and warily, Makino followed him as he walked through the deckhouse into the passage, before descending the ladder belowdecks.

He brought her deep into the ship’s bowels. It was dark, but the kerosene lamp he’d brought lit their path. The ship’s passage was narrow, not even wide enough for two to walk shoulder to shoulder, and Makino followed behind him at a short distance. He was a good deal taller than her, and she couldn’t see anything ahead of them, which didn’t exactly set her heart at ease.

She’d never been down here, had assumed it was only cargo and weapons, but as Sabo opened the hatch to one of the bottom compartments, she realised abruptly where he’d brought her, catching sight of the cells lining the passage, caged by metal bars.

Unease curled in her gut, but just as she was about to open her mouth and ask, Sabo came to a stop.

They’d reached the cell furthest down the passage. Inside were two figures, bound and gagged with their backs to each other, and coming closer, Makino saw that it was a young couple: a man and a woman. The man had a tumble of blond curls, and a beard that hadn’t been groomed in some time. The woman’s long hair hung unbound. They both looked like they’d been in the brig awhile.

“Our tickets,” Sabo announced, as Makino gaped at the sight through the bars. “Or more specifically, we’ll be using theirs. This was actually our back-up plan. In our original draft, I was going to sneak in as a guard, but after they announced they were keeping Red-Hair in Mariejois, we changed tracks. Because there's no precedent for this, no one knows how the execution is going to affect the Reverie, and it will be easier for me to adapt to any unforeseen changes if I can move around freely with the guests. And since we can’t _ fake _ a noble house…”

He swept his hand towards the two unconscious figures. “It was actually a stroke of luck that you called us when you did. We were about to pull straws for who was going to fill her shoes, but you’re a perfect fit.”

She might have told him what she thought about his reasoning, that _ luck _ should have anything to do with the current situation and her role in it, but as it was, Makino couldn’t think past what he was _ saying_. “You’re going to _ steal _ their identities?” Her voice sounded shrill where it bounced off the bulkheads of the narrow passage. “We’ll get caught!”

Sabo seemed untouched by her worries. “Nobles are too concerned with themselves to pay much attention to anyone else. We just have to fit the part, and try not to make any scenes. And anyway, there’s going to be a masquerade.” At her disbelieving look, he shrugged, misunderstanding the reason for her reaction. “Nobles love a ball. It’s the one thing you can count on, no matter what else is going on in the world.”

Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t form a reply. But even presented with their plan, as mind-_bogglingly _ reckless as it was, Makino didn’t know what she’d expected, or what she would have suggested as an alternative.

“Is there no other way?” she asked him, even as she already knew the answer, observing the young woman where she sat, out cold in the cell. They were roughly the same age, and had similar complexions, even as her hair looked blacker than hers in the lamplight. From how she was sitting, she also looked a good deal taller, and the closer she looked, the less alike they seemed. And yet Sabo had called her a perfect fit.

“What if we meet someone who knows them?” she asked him.

He seemed to have already thought about that. “They’re a royal family from a tiny kingdom near the border to the Calm Belt. Ships don’t dare go near it because of the currents and the risk of being thrown off course. On top of that, the former king was an isolationist, so they’ve had zero contact with outsiders. This is their first time attending the Reverie.” He met her eyes, his own gleaming. “We did our research.”

He nodded to the couple on the other side of the bars. “The king died last year. That's the queen and her brother. According to our source, he's the reason they've joined the World Government, but as far as I'm aware, they’ve never actually seen him. And as for the queen,” he continued, grinning, “all anyone knows is that she's supposedly _ very _ beautiful.” He looked at her, but Makino was too busy staring at the occupants of the cell for the suggestion to register.

She wanted to protest, although couldn’t seem to find a legitimate concern that wasn’t just her own fear that they’d see right through them before they’d even reached the gates. And how else would they get her in? She couldn’t pretend to be one of the guards, or a navy escort. It only made sense that she pretend to be one of the attending nobles, and Sabo was right―they couldn’t fake a whole noble house. It had to be one that already existed, and if they couldn’t sneak in as part of a royal entourage, that left only one option.

Sabo turned towards her then. His earlier cheer was muted, a serious expression on his face this time as he asked her, “Are you okay with this?”

It was asked with the suggestion that she could say she wasn’t, and he wouldn’t force her, but even presented with that alternative, Makino couldn’t make herself decline. She had already accepted Dragon’s terms; had told them she would do what was asked of her, to aid their operation in whatever way she could. And for Shanks…

She breathed in, the damp, briny smell of the brig filling her lungs, but it helped settle her racing mind, which kept going over all the possible ways this could go wrong before they’d even gotten inside the city, and that didn’t even consider the fact that they might have to be there for the whole week of the Reverie.

Wear a disguise. Infiltrate a holy city. She’d read books with similar premises, but had never in her wildest dreams imagined she’d ever be facing the real thing.

But then she’d never counted on Shanks, either. The most real thing in her life.

“No,” Makino said, her eyes fixed on the woman in the brig, wondering what kind of cell they were keeping him in, and how they were treating him. From what she’d heard about the Celestial Dragons, she was almost afraid to imagine it, and maybe that was why her conviction didn’t waver as she said, fiercely―

“But I’ll do it.”

―

The newspaper stared up at her from where she’d opened it across the bartop, to a feature detailing some of the key attendees of the upcoming Reverie. The minor noble houses were only mentioned with a brief comment and no photo spread, while whole pages had been dedicated to others, like the Nefertari family and King Neptune.

The public loved a red carpet, and usually, the event was excellent press, and the only thing the WENP reported for the whole week allotted for the conference, although Shakky wondered idly if anyone was even paying attention to the other participants this year, with the honoured guest currently lodging in the castle dungeons.

Shanks’ photograph had been featured again, alongside the other participants, even as he’d had his own special feature just two days ago, but then given the recent announcement, Morgans knew what his readers were really interested in: the Emperor of the sea in the World Government’s custody, whose presence at the conference would likely be what most people remembered of the event, years from now. And even given special treatment, it wasn’t favouritism or even his status as a known outlaw that marked him as separate from the other kings in attendance.

Red-Hair was not a lesser king among many, to pledge his compliance before the Empty Throne. The power and influence he wielded defied even the assumption, and anyone who’d witnessed his actions in Marineford two years ago would say the same. And Monkey-chan was making a name for himself, but he was a new name, still. If Roger had an obvious successor in the eyes of the general public, it was his former cabin boy.

The World Government was well aware, which explained their decision to go through with the execution despite the inherent risks. What better way to demonstrate their ideology of a world where no king ruled above another, than to publicly execute one of the most visible threats to that very system, and right before the watching eyes of anyone who might harbour an idea of sitting on the Empty Throne?

“Oh, Red-chan,” she sighed. “You never did want that throne.” But then, the world chose the Pirate King, not the other way around. The World Government knew that, too.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs preceded his arrival, as the door to her private apartments opened, and Shakky lifted her gaze from the paper to find Rayleigh pulling on his cloak. “Going out?”

She caught the edge of his smile as he inclined his head towards her. “Just for a stroll.”

“Far?”

He didn’t answer, but then she hadn’t asked out of ignorance. “So I take it you won’t be back for supper,” she said instead, putting her cigarette back to her lips. “Shame.”

“Why?” His smile had grown to a familiar grin. “Were you thinking of cooking?”

“Cooking up a scheme, maybe,” she retorted. “You know I have no patience for the homely arts. That’s why I got myself a househusband.”

His eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “And what will you do without him? Starve?”

Her lips curved around her cigarette. _Cheeky man_. “A girl will always find something to eat, Ray-san,” Shakky said. “But just in case, you might want to hurry back.”

Rayleigh said nothing, or show that he'd heard the underlying sincerity in the teasing remark, but then Shakky didn't doubt he had. No soul on this sea knew her better, after all.

Observing him where he stood in her doorway, she felt a moment of uncharacteristic hesitation. He’d always come and gone as he pleased, although she couldn’t help but feel the difference this time. But then they both knew, and more intimately than most, the power of those who inhabited that place. And for all the ships she’d burned, Shakky had never been able to touch Mariejois.

She looked at him, her expression serious now. They both knew the risk of even entering that place, and that he wouldn’t have made the decision on a whim.

“What are you thinking, Ray?” Shakky asked him.

Rayleigh met her eyes, his own dark behind his glasses. “I’ve never known anything to keep Shanks where he didn’t want to be.”

Shakky pressed her lips together. She'd thought the same. “You think he has a reason for staying.”

The slight tightening at the corners of his eyes was her answer, even before he said, “I have a feeling.”

He was quiet for a beat. The waning light caught in his glasses, leaving his eyes momentarily shielded from her, but then, looking up to meet hers, “The last time,” Rayleigh said, “I didn’t get involved.”

Shakky heard what he didn’t say, the regret that dated back two years but that weighed heavier than others he’d carried for longer, and smiled. He really was getting old, to have become so sentimental.

“Breaking into the Holy Land,” she mused, cupping her elbow in her palm. Her eyes gleamed. “Roger will be upset you waited until he was dead to do it.”

Rayleigh laughed, and the sound eased some of the weight off her heart. “Knowing him, it’ll be the first thing he tells me when I cross over.”

She pointed her cigarette holder at him, as though she could order Death around. But then, hadn’t there been a time in her life where she’d felt like she could? “Don’t pay the ferryman just yet.”

His smile reached his eyes, deepening the lines of a long life spent avoiding that particular tab, although what he said was, “If it’s your ferryman we’re talking about, I think I’ll be alright.”

Shakky smiled, although when she spoke, it was without her usual teasing. “Be careful, Ray,” she told him, and then added for good measure, “You’re not a young man anymore.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. And in that moment, he looked the youngest she’d seen him in years, or at least since Monkey-chan had last stopped by on his way to the New World. But Shakky remembered another young man who’d worn that hat, and who’d been equally spirited, and cheeky. The first protege of the man who’d once claimed he had no patience or desire for teaching.

“It’s the prerogative of the old to get away with any number of things,” Rayleigh said, holding her eyes for a beat, before he turned to leave. Shakky watched him go, the bell above the door announcing his departure before it closed behind him, and with no further words exchanged between them. They never said goodbye. Not like most married people did, anyway, but then their marriage had never been like most.

She looked at the newspaper again, and Shanks, not a boy for many years now, and thought of the city that had persisted for eight hundred, the land of false gods built on the backs of slaves. Once, it had been her whole reason for living, to see a single ship burn in that endless fleet, and it had never been enough but it hadn’t stopped her from trying, young and reckless as she’d been back then, with a sense of justice that had burned brighter than the torch in her hand.

Smoothing shaking fingers over the newspaper, and the white city where it sat, untouched, Shakky wondered when she’d stopped being the one lighting the fires.

―

The view from her private balcony had always offered peace, observing the lush valley, green as emeralds, and the deep blue river that wound like a snake through the heart of her island.

“Hime-sama.”

The voice reached her through the haze of her thoughts, the title tugging like chains, heavy with everything it encompassed―the choices she’d made that had brought her here. The moment she could no longer run from her past.

The call from New Marineford was still imprinted on her mind, seared into it like the mark on her back, and the years had dulled the pain but she felt it now, as though the orders had burned it into her skin anew.

Her official summons to Mariejois, to oversee the Reverie and Red-Hair’s execution.

Her sisters exchanged a look, but then they were among the few who knew the significance of those orders, and what it meant to be summoned back to that place.

“What will you do?” Marigold asked her quietly.

Hancock didn’t reply, but then her sisters already knew the answer―the only answer it could be, so long that Amazon Lily was indebted to the World Government for their protection. Even if it went against every instinct in her body, which had learned so intimately the cruelty of the Celestial Dragons, observing the deep forests of their island, still unmarked by that world, there was no question.

They didn’t answer to those gods here, but called back to the unholy altar where she’d sacrificed her humanity for survival, with the freedom of her tribe at stake, what else could she do but accept?

―

The distant shrieking of hinges dragged him out of a fitful sleep, but then he was always on the brink of wakefulness, never fully allowed to rest. The chains holding him up kept his body from succumbing even to physical exhaustion, every little movement yielding a twinge of pain, reminding him that there was no escaping it, even in sleep.

His mind found no more relief, plagued by hallucinations that were becoming disturbingly convincing, but whenever he opened his eyes, she was always gone.

He wasn’t sure how many days it had been. The torchlight never changed, and he’d long since lost track of the hours, and could only surmise that it hadn’t been more than a week, as the Reverie had yet to happen. At least Shanks was reasonably sure it hadn’t.

The dark played tricks on the mind, the creeping shadows bringing unreasonable thoughts―not fear of dying, but of being forgotten. That his punishment wasn’t a quick, public execution but a slow, lonely death in this forsaken place, where he couldn’t hear the voice of anything except occasionally, agonisingly, _hers_.

His shoulder ached, and his legs from kneeling in the same position, but at least the chains were partially holding him up, although the pressure on his arm when he allowed it to carry his weight had gotten too painful to bear for long stretches of time.

A second passed where he wondered if he’d imagined the sound of the hinges, which suggested a visitor. His observation was dulled from exhaustion and days spent in the dark without another living presence, save the persisting vision of Makino, which sometimes felt so real it took effort convincing himself it wasn’t.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor ahead, the sounds arranged into a now-familiar gait, but then the Fleet Admiral was the only one who’d come to see him, although this time, he didn’t pause in front of the bars.

He felt the rise in temperature, and heard the metal where it hissed from the heat, reshaping to allow Sakazuki to step through and into the cell. And Shanks didn’t have to wonder what he was there for, having had an inkling already before a newspaper was tossed onto the floor into his line of vision, showing the headline announcing the date of his execution.

“It’s been decided,” the Fleet Admiral's voice spoke from somewhere above him; a useless comment, because Shanks was still capable of reading, but he kept the glib remark to himself. “Your execution is scheduled to take place on the last day of the Reverie.”

His expression revealed nothing, but then he wasn’t surprised. He’d already anticipated the announcement, but even if he hadn’t, Shanks didn’t want to give the Fleet Admiral the satisfaction of any kind of reaction after losing his temper during his last visit.

“The location is still being discussed,” Sakazuki continued, unfazed by the one-sided conversation. “Personally, I think the throne room would send the clearest message.”

The corner of his mouth fleeted up, as Shanks said, the deep cadence of his voice roughened from days without use, “Subtlety is a lost art, apparently.”

He wasn’t looking at him, and so couldn’t see if the remark had sparked any kind of reaction, but, “There will be many in attendance,” Sakazuki continued, as though he hadn’t spoken, although the edge in his voice told Shanks how much his cheek was appreciated. “Representatives from every noble house under the World Government’s jurisdiction, while the eyes of the whole world are upon the Reverie.”

Smiling almost felt like he’d forgotten how to do it, and he really shouldn’t be goading the man, but he couldn’t help himself. “With a crowd like that, it’s a shame the entertainment won’t be better. I’d prepare something, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

Sakazuki didn’t answer, but then Shanks would have been surprised if he’d taken the bait. And he couldn’t help but imagine a different face, and a different reaction; the way she could never fully suppress her smiles, or her laughter, even at his inappropriate humour.

God, he missed her laughter.

He didn’t know why he was still talking, but it was a small measure of relief, just to talk to someone who wasn’t a hallucination. “So is the whole fleet scheduled to attend? I find it hard to imagine the Celestial Dragons allowing pirates within their walls.” Then, “Well,” he amended wryly, with a glance at his cell, “These walls, maybe.”

“The Warlords have received their summons,” Sakazuki confirmed, the remark delivered without feeling, but then he added, “Although after the conference, their services will no longer be required.”

His brow furrowed, tugging at his scars, but before Shanks could figure out what he meant by that, Sakazuki continued, “I would prefer avoiding any further dependency, but gathering them all in one place will be an effective solution to a future problem. It would take considerable resources tracking them all down after we revoke their pardons. This way, the entire issue will be dealt with by the time the Reverie is over.”

Shanks said nothing, turning the information over in his mind. As far as traps went, this was one of the World Government’s more elaborate.

Sengoku would never have allowed it, even for former pirates.

He wondered if they suspected anything, although wasn’t too worried. Mihawk was certainly capable of taking care of himself, and Buggy always got himself out of a pinch. No, it was the implication that made him wary: the reason for the World Government’s sudden decision to abolish a system that had been in place for years. What had they created, to justify overturning the whole world order?

“Before I forget,” Sakazuki said then. “If your compliance needs further incentive.”

The remark dragged his attention back, just in time to catch something landing atop the newspaper, a soft flutter of fabric, and there was a full second where he didn’t know what he was looking at, before he recognised it, and his reaction was so forceful it ripped his breath from his chest.

The kerchief lay atop the paper, the slip of fabric obscuring his wanted poster photo. Pale yellow cotton embroidered with white along the edges. And she had many, but Shanks would have recognised any one of them.

She’d worn this one in her hair the day he’d left her. He remembered trying to tug it loose, and her small hands batting his fingers away, laughingly accusing him of having stolen so many, she soon wouldn’t have any left.

“We have them both in our custody,” Sakazuki said, the words he’d feared, even as he’d already suspected it to be the case. “Your wife has been cooperative so far. For her own sake, she will continue to be. As will you.”

It was hard to breathe, like the chains were cinching tighter around his chest, thinking of her at the navy's mercy. And there were good people in the ranks, but Shanks knew as well as any pirate how power corrupted even the just. “And once I’m dead?”

Sakazuki didn’t reply immediately, but then, “Justice will be served,” he said, a calm behind it that shivered along the naturally hoarse quality of his voice. “For any criminal, the punishment must fit the crime. Yours is a way of life; death is the only possible punishment to restore balance, and you will die as you lived: a pirate.” He paused for a beat, but then, “As for your wife,” he continued, observing him where he kneeled, “The wife of a pirate shall be his widow. A reminder of the folly of her own choices. Your death shall serve a dual purpose.”

He didn’t mention their son, but Shanks couldn’t believe he would have him killed simply by virtue of being his. Even if he considered all those who'd associate with pirates as corrupt, he couldn't equate the life of a baby who wasn't even old enough to choose with a death sentence, although the alternative was sobering, imagining what the World Government might do to ensure Ace grew up with no knowledge of his parentage. Would they take him from her?

The thought was numbing. And he’d faced many enemies in his life, had stared death in the eyes more times than he could count, but he’d never feared the outcome like he did now. Not for his own sake, but for hers.

_Garp_, the thought came to him then, like a lifeline. Garp wouldn’t let anything happen to them, wouldn’t allow them to take their son from her. But he didn’t know where Garp was, or if he even knew they had them. And as long as they did, Shanks could do nothing. He didn’t know where they were, if they were keeping them in New Marineford or somewhere else. The only thing he did know, and with absolute certainty, was that Akainu wouldn’t hesitate.

He wondered where she was, and if she was scared. And he hated that it should have come to this, that she should be in this position because of him. But if she would live―if Garp might get her out, and their son―he would gladly walk to the gallows.

Sakazuki turned to leave, and, “Wait!” Shanks called out. Raising his voice found it guttural, the effort almost too much after days without use, but the note of authority wasn’t missed, even as he regretted it a second later, recognising who he was speaking to.

The Fleet Admiral paused, although he didn’t turn his head to look at him, but Shanks knew he had his attention as he continued, this time with the deference of a request instead of a demand, “She doesn’t see it.”

Shanks saw him incline his head a fraction, as he repeated, “When you kill me, she won’t be there to see it. Let me have that, Sakazuki.”

Sakazuki didn’t answer. And it wasn’t in his power to make requests of this Fleet Admiral, but however unyielding his personal ideology, Shanks didn’t think he was cruel just for the sake of it.

“Don’t mistake me for Sengoku,” Sakazuki snapped, his smoker’s rasp striking the quiet with sudden force. “I’ll make no accommodations for a _ pirate_.” He sneered. “Your days of currying favour from us are over, Red-Hair.”

Then with a harder inflection, “And your wife might not be a pirate, but her soul is every bit as corrupt as yours. So do not_ test _me.” Turning, he offered his parting words over his shoulder, “Forget your place again, and I will make sure she follows you to the gallows.”

He made to walk away. Shanks didn’t watch him go, his gaze fixed on Makino’s kerchief where it lay. Even less than an arm’s length away, the chains didn’t allow him to reach for it, if only to touch it.

“In case I didn’t make myself understood,” Sakazuki said then, with a glance over his shoulder.

The stone beneath the paper glowed, the magma bubbling up so hot it knocked against his face, but he couldn’t turn his eyes away, watching as the heat disintegrated the newspaper and the kerchief. It took less than a second.

Shanks stared at the place it had been, not even a thread left of the soft slip of fabric that she’d worn in her hair.

“If the fire is hot enough, human bones will react no differently,” Akainu said, a fact offered without feeling. Meeting his gaze, his features hardened. “And be advised that I will make you watch.”

His whole body shook, and his own rage felt like the hotter flame, so overwhelming he almost couldn’t breathe past it.

Turning away, “She is small,” Akainu added, almost as an afterthought. “It would not take a lot.”

The shout ripped from his chest, and he yanked at the chains so hard deep cracks shot through the ancient stone in which they were embedded. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the whole foundation of the castle shook, a foreboding groan shuddering through the bedrock like an earthquake, but the man before him didn’t even flinch.

Walking away, Akainu stepped calmly through the hole, the metal bars reshaping themselves behind him, until it was welded shut. In the absolute quiet that followed, only the Fleet Admiral’s receding footsteps could be heard, and his own blood thundering in his ears, his gaze locked with the stone floor where it cooled, only a slight unevenness left where it had melted.

Of Makino’s kerchief, not even a fragment remained.

―

It was a few days’ voyage to reach their destination.

Halfway through, they changed ships―a large, imposing galleon that lay anchored off the coast of an uninhabited island on the border of the Calm Belt, the crossing of which had to count as the most harrowing experience of her life, Makino thought. The Revolutionary Army used the navy’s tactics of crossing without detection of the sea kings, but just because they left them alone didn’t mean you couldn’t _ see _them.

She’d asked Shanks once how they avoided the beasts when they made the crossing, but he’d only shrugged and said they’d never been a problem, which struck her now as either a blatant lie to ease her worry, or there was something he wasn’t telling her. Either way, when she had him back, she’d have him tell her.

As it was, they entered the Grand Line without much trouble, although Makino wasn’t given long to ponder the feat―that after spending her whole life in the same sea, and in the same _ port, _she was suddenly on the most dangerous ocean in the world―as there were so many things happening, and so fast it was all she could do to try and keep up.

Her first sight of that fabled ocean was under a clear sky just before sunrise, the horizon dyed in soft blues and golds like a silk painting, which had stolen her breath so thoroughly, standing at the bow, the warm spray against her cheeks and the wind tugging her hair, and wondering if this was what had stolen sailors’ hearts for centuries. In that moment, released briefly from her worries, feeling only the sea and that unfettered freedom, Makino thought she was finally beginning to understand why.

But the novelty of where they were ceased rather quickly, and somewhat unceremoniously, as she was brutally acquainted with the realisation that however different people made them out to be, the sea was the sea, and it didn’t matter if it was gentle East Blue or the Grand Line: she still got violently seasick.

By the time they changed ships, she was feeling so poorly she'd spent most of her mornings bent over the chamberpot, although managed to be coaxed from her cabin with the promise of fresh air.

“If you need to throw up you can do it over the side,” Sabo quipped, infuriatingly cheerful, the way only people who’d managed to keep their breakfast down could be. “The sea is like a giant chamberpot.”

Had she possessed the strength, Makino thought she might have tossed the contents of her actual chamberpot at him.

But her nausea eventually relented enough to get her vertical, and coming out of her cabin, it was to find them disembarking, the deck a whirlpool of movement as they made to transfer their cargo onto their new vessel. The fresh sea air filled her lungs, allowing her head to clear a bit, although all thoughts of chamberpots and seasickness left her when she caught sight of the ship.

White sails filled the sky where they'd drawn up beside it, the single largest vessel she’d ever seen. It was bigger than even Red Force, and beautifully crafted in glossy brown wood, painted with dark green and gold details. At the top of the mainmast flew a pennant she’d never seen before, a curved silver sickle against a dark green background, and from the prow stretched the figurehead of a beautiful woman, her outstretched hand clad in a falconer’s glove.

“I thought the point was to blend in,” Makino said faintly. She still wasn’t feeling well, her seasickness stubbornly persisting even though they’d long since dropped anchor, and the sight of their new transportation didn't put her stomach at ease.

“This is blending in,” Sabo said. “If we’d showed up in anything smaller, they’d definitely take note. Never underestimate the worth these people put into ‘the bigger, the better’. Doesn’t even matter if it’s a good ship if it looks the part." Reading her expression, he was quick to reassure her, "This one is, though. Don't worry.”

Makino just shook her head, and refrained from saying the ship was the least of her worries, even as she didn't feel particularly eager to set sail on yet another strange vessel, and one that looked too big to even stay afloat, whatever Sabo claimed.

She’d barely dipped her toes into this world and already she was longing for land.

Observing the ship from the deck of Dragon’s, she focused on breathing, and going over the information Sabo and Koala had been drilling into her for the past few days.

The identities they were borrowing belonged to a largely anonymous royal family. Peregrine was the young widowed queen of King Gyr of the Takagari Kingdom, a small monarchy that had only recently come under the jurisdiction of the World Government. The late king was credited as the primary reason for their strident isolationism, and after his passing, it had been the dowager queen's younger brother who’d negotiated forth the alliance. This year, they were both expected to attend the Reverie: their first appearance on the public stage as representatives of their sovereign nation.

Observing the pennants where they danced in the wind, she thought of the only symbol she felt allegiance to, the jolly roger she could picture with her eyes closed, and the markings she could trace as easily as the ones in her husband’s skin. And as they had gained a habit of doing, her thoughts went to his territory, now under Blackbeard. There’d been nothing in the newspaper yet, but then they were almost exclusively reporting on the Reverie and Shanks’ impending execution. What did those islands matter to the press?

The sense of helplessness had grown deeper roots within her over the past few days, but not because she _ couldn’t _do anything. Now, Makino wondered if it was because she felt like she should―that it was hers, somehow, that responsibility, and those islands. As though part of her had accepted it without her realising she had.

But regardless of what responsibility she felt, and whatever she’d accepted, it didn’t change the fact that there was nothing she could do. Her husband hadn’t gone to the gallows yet, but she felt no more powerful than the woman whose title she was borrowing; was no more an empress than a queen regnant.

A call from across the deck drew Sabo’s attention, and, “Let’s go,” he told her, nodding towards the other ship. “We’re settling sail within the hour, and there are still more preparations to finish.”

Makino nodded absently, although felt how her stomach twisted at the mention, knowing they were getting closer, but feeling no more prepared for what awaited them when they arrived.

She had nothing to bring with her but the clothes she was wearing, although found herself hesitating at the top of the gangplank, a last look offered to the ship she was leaving. For all that it wasn’t her ship, and that she’d spent less than a week aboard, she felt suddenly loath to yield the small familiarity, when there was nothing familiar where they were going.

Following Sabo aboard found the new ship in an even greater tumult of preparations, the deck swarming with people carrying crates and shouting orders. It looked like they were just getting the ship ready for departure, but she’d observed Shanks’ crew doing this many times, and felt the difference as she walked among the revolutionaries, their feelings bared to her like she could reach out and touch them. Aware of what she was doing now, there was no _ un_noticing it, sensing their anticipation, although sharper than anything was the utter _ readiness _ in every soul on deck_, _like a needle to prick her finger on.

It felt like they were preparing for war.

“Sabo.”

Dragon was there then, materialising through the throng, moving around him like a current around a rock in the riverbed.

His gaze fleeted towards her briefly. Makino hadn’t spoken to him since the first night she’d stepped aboard. He often kept to his own quarters, or in counsel with his most trusted, and that didn’t include her. Not with this crew and captain.

She didn’t know what silent agreement passed between them, but Sabo found something that required his immediate attention across the deck. His parting look held an apology, although Makino had a mind to tell him the grin that accompanied it ruined the attempt, as though it delighted him for some reason to abandon her with him.

She raised her eyes to Dragon, towering above her. He wore a tunic in a muted, dark blue shade, and without his usual cloak, appeared startlingly ordinary, although there was no denying the authority he held, apparent just from the way people moved around him, not with intimidation, but respect.

Not for the first time, the comparison to Shanks was unavoidable, although that was where their similarities ended. Dragon was a very different leader than her husband; Makino had gathered that before they’d even met, and their brief interactions had only confirmed it.

“I take it you won’t be putting on a disguise,” she said, after a tense beat had passed. She had to lift her chin just to look at him, but refused to be bullied into submission because of their different statures. And she’d already made her impression of him clear.

She could have sworn a fleeting gleam of humour winked in his eyes. “Unfortunately, I don’t think a wig would cut it,” Dragon mused, with surprising wryness for a man who’d struck her as exceedingly serious.

His gaze swept across her, taking in her dress, noting the laced bodice and skirt, unapologetically feminine, like the full sleeves of her soft cotton blouse where they tied delicately at her elbows. She’d left her apron at home, but the suggestion still transferred―that she looked like what she was; a barmaid―as he added, his eyes meeting hers, “The pleasure of anonymity has not been mine for some years.”

She swallowed the glib remark that came to her, that if anonymity had in any way been a desire of his, he should have passed on the face tattoo.

“Sabo mentioned we were setting sail soon,” she said instead, and saw him incline his head in a nod.

“If we are to arrive on time.”

She hesitated, and knew it probably wouldn’t get her an answer, but still asked, “And what will you be doing? If you’re not going to Mariejois.”

Dragon’s gaze met hers, as a smile fleeted over his mouth. “I never said I was not going," he said, and when her eyes widened, he added mildly, “I only said I would not wear a disguise.”

Before she had the chance to respond, “Hama,” Dragon said, as a woman appeared at his elbow, soundless as a shadow. Grey-haired and kind-eyed, Hama was almost seventy, had four kids and seven grandkids, and had after her retirement from her flower shop decided to do something about the state of the world.

The information was as familiar to her as her presence, like they were one and the same, but then she’d always loved learning to know people. It was one of the reasons she loved running a bar, to be the purveyor of peace and good drink, but also stories, and the keeper of the people bringing them.

And she wasn’t a barmaid at this moment, but the days she’d spent aboard, Makino had made a point of getting to know Dragon’s people. Her acceptance to join their cause might be a means to an end, and they might not feel loyalty or camaraderie to her, but if she was going into hell, the very least she could do was know the people she’d be going with.

The smile Hama offered was warmly knowing, as Dragon told her, “Show Makino-san to her quarters.”

There was that glimmer of amusement again, although before she could consider what it suggested, he’d taken his leave of them without further comment, which left her with nothing to do but to follow Hama.

Although if she’d expected a small cabin similar to the one she’d been given on his ship, she was sorely mistaken.

To start, her new quarters were abovedeck: a large, lavish compartment with broad panes of glass overlooking the sea. It had an elaborate armoire and soft rugs, and a vanity almost as big as the bed, a framed bunk with delicate carvings in polished wood, topped with a thick goose-feather mattress and silk sheets, fit for a queen.

When she was done gawking at it, “This has to be a joke,” Makino blurted.

Hama’s eyes twinkled; she had none of Dragon’s qualms of demonstrating her amusement. “Boss rarely indulges in those.” She had a broad, cheerful accent, and at Makino’s unamused look, only grinned. “His orders were quite specific.”

“But I don’t _need_ all this,” Makino protested. “I just need somewhere to sleep. A spare hammock is more than enough. I don’t take a lot of room.”

“Your cooperation was part of the arrangement,” Hama reminded her.

Makino pursed her lips. “He’s going to use that one a lot, isn’t he?”

Hama just laughed, the belly-deep sound of it answer enough, before she excused herself, with the assurance that if she’d rather have a hammock belowdecks, she was more than happy to trade, although even ready to take her up on the offer, Makino doubted they’d let her.

Left to her own devices, she felt suddenly out of place, although in a different way than she had leaving Fuschia, which was only a natural consequence of the world opening up, and at least she was adapting to her new circumstances. No, this new feeling was something else entirely, not of being small and out of her depth but of being _ in the way_.

For all his talk of her being useful, she’d never felt less useful in her life, standing in that opulent compartment, her hands twitching, missing her bar, her routines, something to _do _that didn’t include sitting around and waiting. And she was good at waiting, but waiting for Shanks had never been the whole extent of her existence. Her widow’s walk had included a full day’s work. She didn’t know how to sit_ still_.

Her brow furrowed, as Makino firmed her lips. If Dragon's idea of including her in their operation meant stowing her away until he found a use for her, she had a mind to show him how cooperative she intended to be.

If they weren’t going to let her be useful, she was going to make herself useful.

Striding out on deck, she was already pushing up her sleeves, her gaze sweeping the crowd before zeroing in on two of Dragon’s lieutenants, in the midst of a heated discussion. “Who’s in charge of the cargo?” she asked as she came up to where they were standing, interrupting what she’d quickly gathered was a disagreement about categorising their equipment.

When all they did was look at her, she said, gently but with surprising command, “Let me see your lists.”

Wordlessly, they were handed over; Makino wondered if they were too startled to do anything else.

She looked them over, frowning. “Who put these together?”

They exchanged a look, before the taller of the two―Harding, who had an engineering degree and a predilection for historical romances―answered, “Dragon did.”

“We were trying to decide what to do about the weapons,” his partner told her. Makepeace was a mink, and a former pirate. He had the narrow features of a fox, and an odd scar circling his neck, as though something heavy had worn away the fur there over time, like a collar. “We just picked up a shipment, but there was more than we estimated when we stole―I mean _ commandeered_―”

“Liberated,” Harding murmured.

“―when we _ liberated _ the shipment from the navy.” He gestured to the lists in her hand. “There’s the matter of finding room for it. Something else has to go, or we’ll have to leave some of it behind.”

Listening, her eyes skimmed the lists, naming their supplies and what went where. The instructions were straightforward, penned in a decisive hand without flourish or an excess of words, only the strictly necessary relayed in the clear orders, which Makino could appreciate, although more thought had been given to what needed to be done instead of _ how _ it should be done. Written by a man used to organising an army, not inventory.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said, and before they could utter a protest, if they had one ready, she’d hailed the group busy carrying a crate of weapons up the gangway, directing them to put it down.

By the time Sabo returned from belowdecks, she’d streamlined the operation to the point where most of them were idling without anything to do.

Coming over to where she was standing on the foredeck, his expression showed surprise. “We’re done? That was quick.”

Makino met him on her way down the steps, forcing him to make an about-face to keep up with her as she made to cross the main deck, delicately ignoring the delighted grins springing up as she passed. “All the supplies are on board, and the cargo is arranged according to necessity, then alphabetical order. I’ve also taken the liberty of improving your inventory system.” She handed him her own lists, and the map of the cargo hold she’d drawn up, before primly excusing herself to go puke.

Sabo stared at her lists, before raising his voice to call after her, his delight evident, “Did you colour-coordinate our weapon supply?”

They were ready to set sail a little after noon, an eager wind seeing them off, and Makino didn’t set foot in her new quarters for the remainder of the day, attempting instead to ease some of her uncharacteristic restlessness by exploring the ship. There was a rookery atop the deckhouse, she was surprised to discover, and an assortment of prized birds brought to the Reverie as gifts for the World Nobles. Makino spent a full hour there, just observing their preening. Animal presences were different from humans, and there was something soothing about being near them, who made no demands of her, only nipped playfully at her fingers.

Her favourite was a small kestrel with large, dark eyes and impossibly soft feathers. It was the queen’s, they informed her, and a fiercer hunter than her diminutive size suggested. She preferred to perch on the figurehead’s glove, the sea spray ruffling her feathers, nothing keeping her from flying away, and yet she made no attempt.

Saddened, Makino wondered how she’d fare in Mariejois, and if it would be more or less of a prison than it was for the humans they kept.

She spent the rest of the day in the rookery, but in the evening she joined the others in the galley, the enormous compartment big enough to comfortably fit them all, although even greater than companionship was her desire for _ noise_―to feel that she wasn’t alone, so she wouldn’t look too closely at the fear that other than Shanks, she might be all that was left of her own crew.

“And so I told him,” Sabo said, his voice rising easily above the din, and their laughter as he recounted a rather memorable mishap, ignoring Koala’s frequent corrections, “‘Sir, I know what it looks like’―and bear in mind that I was _covered_ in feathers―‘but I can assure you I have nothing to do with releasing those chickens in the garrison. I tell you, it’s fowl play!’ Then he had me arrested for the pun under the charge of contempt against the crown, which, you know, fair.”

She felt their laughter in her chest, the force of it filling the whole galley. And if she closed her eyes she could pretend, if only for a second, that she wasn’t with the Revolutionary Army but a different crew, even as her senses wouldn’t allow her to be fooled, aware of them now in a way she hadn’t been before―knowing, even with her eyes shut, that they were different people.

She wondered where they were―if they were still alive. She had to believe they were, couldn’t believe they’d all been taken from her. She wondered what they thought of the execution, and if they would do something. If they could.

_What are you thinking, Ben Beckman?_

She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary―that she might get him out without the need for violence, or another war.

Although even thinking it, she remembered who she was with, observing them from the spot she’d claimed towards the far end of the galley. The commanders of their different factions were seated along the tables, all four as different as their respective seas: quiet Karasu, who enjoyed her company, and cheeky Lindbergh, who kept asking her if she wanted to learn to use a distressing variety of weapons; gentle Morley, who always asked her how she was doing, and Betty, who, despite an intimidating first meeting, had taken one long, hard look at her, nodded once, and gone about her business, which given her general attitude, suggested some kind of curious approval. And there was Ivankov and Inazuma, on the table next to Hack and Koala, shaking her head at Sabo's chronicling.

For all their laughter and good-natured camaraderie, these were the people who’d declare war on the World Government. There were no peaceful negotiations waiting for them in Mariejois. The declarations of that summit would be written in blood.

She lingered until she was the only one left in the galley, before finally admitting surrender, although retreating to her cabin found it as dauntingly huge as she remembered. And it only seemed exaggerated now, with the deeper shadows and the _ quiet _ that greeted her, and the enormous, empty bunk, and if she didn’t already think about him with every other breath, there would have been no escaping it here.

She lay awake, turning his vivre card over in her hands as her thoughts circled the same subjects, wondering where he was, and if he was hurting.

That whole first night, she didn’t sleep a wink, the restless hours spent longing for her own bed in her own home as the sky lightened over the sea beyond the windows, feeling the movements of the ship. And pretending she was in Shanks’ quarters didn’t help, when the bunk was too big and the shadows unfamiliar, and by the time the rest of the ship stirred, Makino was already in the galley with the cook, armed with a long night’s worth of restless energy, and a mission to prove that porridge in large quantities didn’t have to taste like gruel.

The next day passed in a blur, their course unimpeded, and only the brief glimpse of an island in the distance occasionally broke the monotony of sea and horizon, although Makino had little attention to spare the view, busy traversing the depths of her own mind, following Sabo’s instructions. And the hours she didn’t spend honing her haki, she spent by the prow, observing the bird perched on the figurehead’s glove and imagining for a moment just sprouting wings and taking off.

That night, she was thankfully so exhausted from the mental exercises and lack of sleep, Makino thought she could have slept in the brig, and the following morning she woke, curiously rested among impossibly soft sheets, although the moment of bliss was fleeting, as her next breath saw her scrambling for the chamberpot. And even _ that _ was opulent, cast in ivory and gold, although it served the same purpose as any other pot.

When she was finished retching, she lay a moment on the rug, just breathing. She’d often wondered how she’d fare at sea, had she gone with Shanks the first time he’d asked her. Now she thought she had her answer, and if she’d harboured any hopes that she’d take to seafaring like the heroines in her books, they'd been swiftly and thoroughly dashed.

Retreating to the void helped, the quiet dark and the still water soothing her senses, although it wasn’t long before the inevitable came knocking.

Her presence had announced her arrival already before Koala rapped her knuckles on the door. _ “Makino-nee,” _ came her voice from the other side. _“We’re an hour from arrival, in case you want to get started.”_

The prospect of sitting up felt like a feat, nevermind getting dressed. Makino wondered if she sounded as poorly as she felt. “Is an hour really necessary?”

She didn’t think she imagined the amusement in her voice as Koala asked her mildly, _ “Is this your first time getting cinched into a corset?” _

A groan was her only answer, and Koala took it as permission to enter, wasting no time in pulling her to her feet, and no amount of grousing could have withstood the no-nonsense handling, which she might have appreciated if she didn’t also feel like she’d been wrung like a rag.

The actual cinching didn’t exactly help, and she regretted every book she’d ever read that had made it sound like an elegant affair.

“Why do I even have to wear this?” she asked.

“Your kingdom has been in self-isolation for a few centuries,” Koala said, as she tightened the laces. “You’re a little behind on the times, fashion-wise, and we’re going for accuracy.”

The full-length mirror threw her expression back, her face pulled into a grimace that might have been comical under different circumstances. As it was, she was trying her best not to throw up again.

“They missed you in the galley this morning,” Koala said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Everyone was asking about your porridge.”

“I gave him the recipe,” Makino said, as she focused on breathing.

“They still asked for yours,” Koala countered with a smile, before she added, “You know, if you keep this up, the Big Boss will have given you your own division by the time we reach Mariejois.”

She couldn’t summon a laugh, partly because it was trapped by the tightening laces, although more because it wasn’t a laughing matter, and she might have told her how much she appreciated her cheek if the next tug didn’t cut the words off as her breath hitched.

She observed herself in the mirror, and the pale cream corset above the thin chemise, deceptively delicate-looking for how sturdy it felt, like putting on a plate of armour. But then it felt a little bit like being dressed for battle, no chainmail or plates, but then no one on this battlefield used swords. Of course, that didn’t make it any less deadly.

“Have you ever done this before?” Makino asked her, and heard the slight strain in her voice. And she preferred her bodices snug, but this was tighter than she was used to.

Koala’s face appeared above her shoulder. “Do you mean have I gone undercover in a corset, or infiltrated a kingdom? Because I’ve done both.”

She said it so calmly, the way anyone might comment on their occupation, presented as something entirely mundane; an ‘oh, you know, it pays the bills’ sort of way. Makino’s disbelieving laugh escaped as a gust of air, just as Koala gave another decisive tug at the laces.

“There,” she said then, as she withdrew. “All done.”

Makino smoothed her hands over the corset, following the shape of it with her fingers. The delicate whalebone structure highlighted her naturally tiny waist, and pushed her small breasts up. The effect was…surprising.

She had a sudden thought of what Shanks would say, but thinking about him was impossible without being reminded of where they were going, and the small flicker of gratification was snuffed out as quickly as it had sparked to life within her.

She saw herself, in just her chemise and corset, her long hair unbound. And she looked no different than she did every morning getting ready, except she wasn’t going to be serving her customers today. And she still had trouble believing they could pull this off―that anyone in Mariejois should look at her and not immediately see that she was just a barmaid, not a queen like she was pretending.

She met Koala’s eyes in the mirror. “How do you convince people that you’re something other than you are?”

Something passed through her eyes; Makino felt it in her presence, the barest ripple in her calm, before Koala said, “Pretend that you belong there. In any situation, confidence is the best disguise. If you don’t question that you should be there, others won’t either.”

“What if I do question if I should be there?”

Koala didn’t miss a beat. “Why are you here?”

The answer came to her without thinking, and Makino saw from her own face in the mirror that it had spoken for her.

Koala smiled. “Then there’s no question if you should be there.” Walking past her, she reached for the dress that had been put out for her. “Don’t think so much about who you’re pretending to be. You’re not that person. Think about why _ you _ belong there; the reason you’re taking this risk. We all saw it, that night you talked to Dragon. Let that confidence transfer.”

She mulled over the words as Koala helped her put on the dress, although that thankfully required nothing more than to button it up the back. Her hair took a little longer, the sleek mass coaxed into a myriad of pins, before a single length was left to hang towards her nape, curled with an iron.

When she was done, Koala squeezed her arm. “I have to go. I’m also going undercover, although it doesn’t require as much preparation. Or layers. Although I’m a little jealous of how pretty it is.”

Makino huffed, but couldn't help her smile, and despite everything that waited, it felt _good_, just having someone to talk to. Other than Dadan, she didn’t have any friends like this, largely because there weren’t that many _ people _ in Fuschia, let alone women. The two who’d shaped her life were both gone, and even in her crew, it was just her. And she’d always thrived on her own, but she missed the company of women.

Turning towards Koala, she sought her eyes, looking through the confident mask she wore, which had been so convincing before she’d focused on really _ seeing_.

“Sabo-kun was right,” Koala said, with a wry smile. “It’s a bit unnerving when you do that.”

Makino just looked at her. “Are_ you _ okay?”

This time, her smile was genuine. They were easy to tell apart, when you knew. “It feels…different,” she said, choosing her words. “To go there of my own will, with my own power. I know why I’m here this time.” Then her mouth firmed, determination flashing in her eyes as she said, with the weight of a promise, “And I won’t be captured again.”

There was a finality about it that made Makino pause. Not that she wouldn’t get captured―that she wouldn’t _ be _ captured, as though she’d already made up her mind of what she would do if she was.

On her way out, she stopped in the doorway, a last grin thrown over her shoulder. “You look beautiful, by the way. I wonder what Red-Hair would say if he could see you now.”

Then she was gone, the door shutting behind her, leaving Makino alone with her reflection.

The person in the mirror stared back, her expression conflicted, as though she wasn’t really sure what she was looking for. And she’d become used to seeing others, of looking past guards and masks to what lay beyond, but when she looked into her own eyes, as open and guileless as ever, Makino couldn’t say for certain who she found there.

_ What would you say? _

The dress really was beautiful, a soft cream colour in the loveliest chiffon. It highlighted her own colouring, her still-fairer complexion and the sea-glass in her hair, and her eyes, large and dark where they stared back from a face that was unchanged, and yet. The snug bodice was outlined with ivory thread and seed-pearls, the pattern almost giving the impression of armour, if a delicate one. A wide, scooping neckline showcased her collarbones and the tops of her small breasts, and the sleeves left her shoulders bared, cuffed at her wrists and slit along her arms, showing her freckles.

A dainty rose-gold diadem lay along her crown, weaved into the dark folds of her hair, a single freshwater pearl nestled at the top where it parted naturally, like a droplet. It was the only piece of jewellery she wore, save the wedding ring still around her finger. She'd been worried about being weighed down with a whole assortment of jewels, thinking that if they just put enough _on_ her, no one would notice the girl wearing them, but they'd apparently decided the humble crown was all she needed.

Makino touched her fingers to it gently. Her kerchief had been folded atop her clothes, and she spared a longing look at her old dress on the bunk, the soft blue skirt and the wool bodice. Like the kerchief, they were things she’d made with her own two hands.

She didn’t know who’d made this dress, but it certainly fit her like it had been made for her. And even if it was something she never would have imagined herself putting on, she _ was _ wearing it, like she’d accepted everything that came with it.

Straightening her shoulders, she stopped trying to look for the person she expected to find, the one she’d always thought she was, and tried instead just to_ see_―past the gentle features she knew, the delicate frame with its pale freckles, noticing instead the steel-reinforced spine, and the determination that brimmed in the dark eyes staring back at her; and further still, through the clear, guileless surface of her presence, to the bottomless depths beneath.

And observing herself, she didn’t find a false queen or even a barmaid, but something rather different.

The brief moment of clarity was ruined a second later, as she clapped her hand to her mouth, but breathing through her nose, she willed down her nausea, although couldn’t tell if it was just seasickness or nerves this time.

A knock at her door announced another visitor, although she’d already felt him coming, and calling for him to enter, Makino watched as Emporio Ivankov ducked his considerable stature into her quarters.

Catching sight of her, “Myshka,” he greeted, a word she'd gathered was an endearment from the way his eyes curved at the corners when he spoke it.

“Ivankov-san,” Makino said, smiling when he tutted a good-natured reprimand, as he shut the door behind him.

“Vy have told vyo, just ‘Iva’ is fine.”

Coming to a stop before her, he took her in, approval brightening his expressive features. “Vyo look beautiful.”

Her smile sat a little steadier on her mouth, even as she nervously smoothed her hands over her waist. “They’ve done a good job.”

She got a raised brow for that. “Does not require much work when the starting point is already lovely.”

Her reaction was a flustered duck of her head, which he found delightful, from the grin that lit his face, although it eased a moment later, as though he’d remembered something.

Unease pebbled her skin, and it wasn’t the corset that made her next breath harder to catch. “Was there something you needed?” Makino asked. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the company, but she sensed he’d come with a purpose in mind, and had it confirmed a moment later, as he made to give her something.

She watched as he held out his hand, his gloved palm open. In it lay a small locket, nestled in the pool of a long, thin chain. It was roughly the size of her fingernail, with a delicate design, wrought from the same metal as her diadem.

Her confusion had to show on her face, but with a gesture of encouragement, she took the locket from his hand, wondering at its purpose. Even compared to her crown, it seemed a curiously simple piece, and unlike anything a queen might keep.

Not sure what she was supposed to do with it, Makino pressed her fingernail into the fissure around the locket, popping it open, although looking inside, she paused.

Within the tiny compartment, a small pill lay nestled, a perfect fit. It was a pale blue colour, like a miniature robin’s egg.

She looked up at Ivankov, and heard how her voice shook, betraying her show of confusion even as she asked him, “What is it?”

From the way his look softened imperceptibly, he’d gathered that she’d caught on. “In the event that vyo are captured,” he said simply.

A chill went through her whole body, and when she swallowed, her throat felt suddenly parched.

“An understandable precaution,” Makino said hoarsely. She attempted a confident smile, although felt how it faltered. “I don’t think I’d hold up well under torture.”

His eyes softened in earnest, as a big hand covered hers, tucked around the locket. “This is nyet for our sake,” he said. “It’s for vyo.” Before she could reply, “Vy made it myself,” he told her, with a meaningful look. “It’s quick, and painless.”

The suggestion might have missed her, back when she hadn’t been so attuned to the subtleties in people’s speech and expression, looking deeper than the surface of their faces. And he’d meant for her to see, Makino knew.

He wasn’t giving it to her on Dragon’s orders.

“This place,” Ivankov continued, as a sudden fierceness entered his eyes. “Enslavement to the Celestial Dragons is a fate worse than death.” His big hands tightened around hers; Makino wondered if he could feel how badly they were shaking. “Vyo do not come from this life,” he told her, with surprising gentleness. “If vyo are caught, vyo will not suffer.”

She swallowed thickly. And she remembered then, Koala’s decisiveness from before; that entirely calm conviction, but then perhaps it wasn’t a hard decision to make, if you knew the alternative. That there was no alternative.

Ivankov released her hands, and uncurling her fingers, Makino observed the locket nestled in the cup of her palms. Closed, it looked like just another piece of jewellery, and they weren’t likely to check it. A young widow with a locket had a simple explanation, and although she’d much rather it held a memento of her own husband, she thought she needed the reminder. To fully understand what she was agreeing to.

Her hands shook as she removed her wedding ring, having worn it for as long as she could while travelling with them. It was the very last, visible reminder of her old life, and she felt the weight of it as she slipped it onto the chain before fastening it around her neck, the ring and the locket tucked safely into the bodice of her dress.

Ivankov said nothing else, but then Makino didn’t know what could be said. No amount of platitudes could make the truth any prettier, and she felt a sudden surge of appreciation then, that he wasn’t sugarcoating it for her sake.

“Vy met vyor husband once,” Ivankov said instead, making her look up in surprise. He raised his brows, and said over a longing sigh, with unembellished sincerity, “The most beautiful man Vy have ever seen.” His eyes twinkled behind the thick frame of his lashes, as he added, “He also throws one hell of a party.”

Her laugh escaped her, thick with unshed tears. And the pang of longing was familiar, but this time she welcomed it, wanting the strength it gave her, remembering him like that. “He does.”

His smile warmed, as though at her reaction. “Would be a shame for the world to lose him.”

The rebuttal was immediate, perched on the tip of her tongue, to say she didn’t give a damn about the rest of the world, most of whom would watch him walk to the gallows without lifting a finger. The world didn’t deserve him, and wouldn’t grieve him for long if they lost him. Not like the people who loved him, if they were still alive to mourn him. Not like her, who didn’t know how she would live if she lost him.

She swallowed the words, which felt unlike her, but from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, she thought Ivankov had caught it.

“Vyo are quite extraordinary,” he told her. “To go to such lengths.”

Her smile was a tinge deprecating. “I’ve always thought of myself as rather ordinary,” Makino said.

He arched a brow. “Vyo would not think that, hearing him talk about vyo.” And before she could wrap her head around that bit of information, he’d added, with emphasis, “And from what Vy have witnessed, he was not exaggerating.”

She had no rebuttal ready this time. And in that moment, she didn’t want to. She wanted to be that person she’d apparently convinced them she was; the one Shanks was convinced she was. Brave, and bold. _ Extraordinary_.

Her shoulders straightened as she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Thank you, Iva,” Makino said, and hoped he heard it for all it encompassed. Formalities felt suddenly absurd, as though some kind of pact had been made that went deeper than simple companionship; as though in that moment, she was no longer just a tag-along to their operation, but one of them.

And it felt mildly absurd, and more than a little morbid, thanking someone for giving her a way to end her own life if she needed it. But he hadn’t needed to offer it to her. She knew nothing of importance. If they caught her, she’d have nothing to reveal that might implicate them, save that they were in Mariejois, but then if she was caught, odds were that cat would be long out of the bag.

He owed her absolutely nothing, least of all the kindness of a quick, painless death. She’d heard what the Celestial Dragons did to their slaves, the complete dehumanisation and the brands seared into their skin. If she was captured, not just as an impostor or an associate of the Revolutionary Army, but as _ who _ she was―

She curled her hands together, feeling the absence of her wedding ring. And she was suddenly, desperately glad their son was with Dadan, far away from this place. That if they caught her, it would only be her they took, and not their child.

A sudden spell of dizziness washed over her, making her sway a bit, but he’d caught her hand, steadying her as she breathed through her nose.

Concern furrowed his brow, as Ivankov inclined his head to meet her gaze. “Are vyo alright?”

Makino waved him off, and for once, her smile actually felt reassuring, but then she'd gotten weirdly used to her body's unfortunate reaction to seafaring. “Just a little seasick. I look forward to being on land again.”

Ivankov considered her, his expression thoughtful. “Sa-boy mentioned vyo have not had an easy time of it.”

Then, “Tell me,” he said, observing her closely. “When did vyo last see him? Vyor husband.”

She didn’t even have to think; she was always aware of that distance. “It’s been a little more than three months,” Makino said, and this time her smile was a tinge embarrassed. It was hard to believe sometimes they’d been apart ten years. “It feels longer than it is.”

Something passed behind his eyes, but when he opened his mouth to speak, a voice calling from the deck interrupted whatever he’d been about to say.

“_Drop anchor!” _

Makino sucked in a breath, and righted her spine. “Looks like it’s time.” Curiously, she felt calmer than she’d thought she’d be, now that it was upon her.

She looked at Ivankov, wearing a strange expression, like he'd had an inkling of some sort, but she was too focused on what she needed to say to bother with what it meant. Most likely, it didn't have anything to do with her. “I hope I can be of help to you,” Makino told him, sincerely. Then, fiercely, “And I want you to know how much I appreciate you all giving me the chance to save him. I don't know how I would have survived, just sitting on my hands.”

Her conviction didn't waver, and his expression eased a bit as he smiled, and gripped her hands tightly. “Neither down nyor feathers,” he told her, equally fierce, which had the feeling of a ritual of some sort, likely to do with well-wishing.

“One last piece of advice,” he said, as Makino made to walk past him. He wore an unreadable expression, and whatever he was thinking, his presence let nothing slip. “Avoid the drink.”

When she blinked, his smile widened, his eyes holding hers as he told her, “In this particular company, it is best to keep a clear head.”

Makino nodded. She’d thought much the same. “I’ll remember that.”

Then, his head cocked as his smile turned suddenly knowing, “And the trick with a corset,” he added, his eyes gleaming, “is to never let it wear _ vyo_."

Her laugh left her, softened with a breath. “I’ll try my best.”

She got a grin for that, which might have been a terrifying sight, but she’d never known him to be anything but kind and gracious towards her, which he demonstrated by saying, warmly, “Vy think vyo are doing well already.” He tipped her chin up, making her straighten her spine a bit. “Dasvidaniya, little Empress. With luck, we shall meet on the other side.”

Makino nodded, before taking her leave, and she walked out on deck with her chin held high, only to stop, seized by the sight that met her.

The Red Line was even more colossal than she’d heard it described, the great landmass obscuring everything. They were so close, she couldn’t see the top even if she craned her neck, and after days with horizon on all sides, the change was extreme, although Makino thought it would have been regardless, the daunting presence like a solid wall in her mind.

She could see the Red Port where they’d drawn up alongside the wharf, and the insignia of the World Government where it had been carved into the face of the mountain. A reminder to all who saw it of whose authority held supreme here.

The ship was busy as she emerged from the deckhouse, passing revolutionaries in the livery of the royal house they’d borrowed. And the transformation was so immense, it took her a second to recognise the people behind the carefully arranged expressions they’d adopted, belonging to servants whose job it was to be ever-present but never seen, although when they passed her, it was with delighted grins, and the occasional wink, which left her feeling a little more confident, like she had with Iva; not as though she was alone in this, but a part of something.

Maybe that feeling was what gave them the courage to challenge the systems in place―to rise up against oppression despite the odds stacked against them.

Those who weren’t pretending to be part of the royal entourage wore navy uniforms. Makino noticed they were among the lower ranked of Dragon’s agents, but then it was easier to look past an anonymous face than one that might have graced a noticeboard in New Marineford.

Hack wore no livery or uniform, but then she doubted a fishman would be allowed into the Holy Land, at least one not travelling as part of King Neptune’s retinue. She wondered if he would be going with Dragon, however he intended to get in. To be honest, Makino wasn't sure she wanted to know.

For his part, Sabo was ready and waiting on the main deck, his voice raised with laughter as Makino made to descend the steps, the skirt of her dress lifted as she carefully made her way down. Koala was fixing the high collar of his shirt, and if she'd thought she looked dressed for the occasion, Sabo at the very least matched her, in pressed black trousers and a grey silk waistcoat. He’d donned a pair of polished black boots, and a bold velvet tailcoat in such a dark green it looked almost black, with wide lapels and gleaming brass buttons engraved with the insignia of their stolen house. His usual top hat had been exchanged with a black tricorn topped with a dramatic feather.

Makino thought of the little boy who’d once watched her hang the laundry, his hat askew and his cheeks smudged and brightened with a flush as he’d asked her questions while his brothers slept in the shade. It felt suddenly like a different life; or one that belonged to someone else.

Koala wore no disguise, although Makino noticed that she’d cut her hair short, her page-boy hat and goggles gone. Her nose wrinkled with laughter at something Sabo said, before she gave a warning tug at his collar.

Catching sight of her, Sabo’s grin brightened. “Ma-chan!” It grew as she walked closer. “Look at you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a proper noblewoman.”

“Isn’t that an insult in this organisation?” Makino asked as she came to stand beside them. She caught several grins flashing from the surrounding revolutionaries, and taking in his outfit, the glib remark perched on her tongue only a second before she quipped, “Did you even dress up? This doesn’t look that different from what you usually wear.”

Laughter sounded from around the deck, before Sabo cheerfully flipped them all off.

Koala gave another tug at his collar, forcing him to bend his back with a curse as she chided brightly, “That’s not very princely of you.”

Makino was about to agree when she blinked, the words forgotten. She hadn’t noticed it walking up, but getting a better look at his face now, it was impossible _ not _to see it.

His scar was gone.

Sabo’s grin told her he’d caught her reaction, although Makino doubted her gaping was very subtle. “Couldn’t exactly walk through the gates with it. They all know my face.” He tapped his cheek with a finger. “Silicone, and about half of Iva-chan’s cosmetics drawer. But it’s pretty convincing, right?”

She might have agreed―it did look convincing―when her gaze lowered to his chin, and she demurely folded her lips instead.

His grin fell. “Not you, too!”

She opened her mouth, but it was hard finding the words. “It’s―”

“The worst,” Koala finished for her. “Tell him it’s the worst.”

Levelling them both with a look of betrayal, Sabo rubbed his chin, and the elaborate goatee and moustache he now sported. The latter curled cheerfully along his upper lip. “Well I think it makes me look debonair. And at least it doesn’t look fake.”

“At least,” Makino said, and couldn’t suppress her grin this time, but if he’d been inclined to take offence, he seemed happier to see her smiling.

Pleased with the collar, Koala released his shirt, and turning to them both, “I have some things to take care of, but I’ll see you both inside.”

“Won’t you be coming with us?” Makino asked her. All this time, she’d assumed she would.

Her smile revealed nothing, and all Koala said was, “I’ll catch up.”

Makino knew better now than to push, and watched instead as Koala turned to address them both. “You’ll be the vanguard. _ Don’t_,” she said, with a pointed look at Sabo, who placed a hand to his chest in a show of innocence, “draw attention to yourselves. It looks like our arrival’s corresponded with several others, so if you're discreet, you can blend with the crowd.”

Makino caught Sabo’s gaze fleeting to hers, along with another grin. “I don’t think I’m the one in danger of attracting attention,” he said, cheerfully in spite of her unamused look. She was already nervous about disembarking; she didn’t need his jokes.

The gangway had been dropped, and many had already disembarked. They seemed to be waiting for them, and she felt a rush of panic, before she asked Sabo, “Can we quickly go over today again?”

His smile was understanding, and Makino was thankful that he didn’t rush her, when she still had to command her legs to walk off the ship. “There’ll be some socialising when we arrive, and then a garden party tonight. It’s mostly canapés and rubbing elbows. Just agree to anything anyone says and look demure and no one will question if you belong there.”

She nodded absently. And it sounded simple enough, even as she had no idea what to even expect. She’d never attended a normal garden party, let alone one with the world’s elite.

“We’ve got our lodgings taken care of, so you can make a strategic retreat if it gets to be too much,” Sabo continued. “I’ve got some things I need to do once we’re in, but I’ll try to stay with you as much as I can.”

She didn’t really look forward to the prospect of being left on her own in that place, but at the same time, didn’t want to need a babysitter. And she hadn’t accepted Dragon’s offer thinking she was going to sit still while they did all the work. Sabo had his orders; Makino would just have to figure out what she needed to do.

“Is there anything else on our itinerary today?” she asked, and Sabo shook his head.

“Just that. The actual conference takes several days, but you’re not really expected to participate in the meetings. Your presence is mostly a formality.”

“This despite being the reigning queen,” Makino muttered, although there was some relief in the fact that she wasn’t expected to play at politics.

“You might have to sit in on a few of them, though,” he said. “In case something comes up and I’m otherwise occupied.”

She didn’t need him to tell her what that meant. “That’s fine, as long as I won’t have to say anything. Or negotiate a peace agreement.”

His grin said he thought her fully capable, but he did her the courtesy of keeping his jokes to himself this time. “There’ll be enough people with opinions competing for the spotlight,” Sabo said instead. “Outside the parties, the focus will likely be on whoever’s talking the loudest.”

An odd look crossed his face then, which had her stomach sinking, even before he said, “There’s one more thing I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Why do I feel like I won’t like what’s about to come out of your mouth,” Makino said. The grin she got wasn’t particularly reassuring, and neither was what Sabo said next.

“Rumour has it I’m in the market for a new husband for my widowed sister.”

The words stabbed at her; the reminder that she wasn’t long from being a widow in truth. That if the World Government had its way, she would be by the end of the week.

“It’s been a few months since the king passed, and apparently it’s the closest male relative’s job to negotiate any new affairs,” Sabo continued. And mistaking her pained look for reluctance, “You don’t have to actually_ do _ anything,” he was quick to assure her. “Just endure the occasional suitor. Since I’m the one ultimately deciding who gets to marry you, they can’t do anything without my permission.”

“I feel so comforted,” Makino deadpanned. “But if you’re the one deciding, why do I have to be the one dealing with the suitors?”

His smile was at the very least apologetic. “I would if I could, sis, but I’ll have my hands full.”

“Sabo,” came the warning from one of the revolutionaries passing by, which was echoed by similar looks from the others.

Her confusion had to translate, because Sabo grinned, and said with a shake of his head, “Protective hens. You’d think they didn’t trust me to keep you safe. Like I have a record of going off script or something.”

She might have pointed out how little that last part comforted her, given the necessity of a script where they were going, but was too startled by the first part. And it might have been a comfort, knowing the people at her back felt some measure of camaraderie towards her, at least enough to feel protective of her, but as it was, all she felt was an acute and painful longing.

She missed her crew.

Willing her thoughts back from where they wanted to go, Makino tried to focus on what lay ahead. And even teasingly spoken, Sabo’s words had stuck, as she thought again of what Dragon had told her: of doing what the situation deemed necessary. She wondered if this was what he’d meant, or if it was something else, and that was more than just enduring the attentions of a suitor or two, if those suitors proved a useful means to an end.

She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

A crowd had gathered on the wharf. Makino sensed it, so many new presences she struggled to count them all, before she gave up trying altogether. Even in Goa, it hadn’t been this busy; it had just been a normal day, with ships leaving and arriving. Here, there was a palpable excitement in the air, leaving the hairs on her arms standing up.

She was still getting used to her new awareness of the world, and to tell everything apart, but she knew this feeling, having felt its kin the days she’d spent aboard, observing Dragon’s people preparing, although this was a different kind of excitement―a heady sensation, like tossing back a shot of strong liquor.

She touched her brow, closing her eyes. She still felt a little dizzy, but didn’t think it was the corset’s doing this time.

“So what will you do?” she asked Sabo, even as she doubted she’d get anything more specific out of him now.

“I have my orders,” Sabo said vaguely. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“I’m on a need-to-know basis,” Makino said. “I know.”

“I’ll help you any way that I can. Best case, if you do get him out before the execution, we can use the distraction to our advantage. Your best bet, as far as I’ve gathered, is the masquerade ball in the castle towards the end of the week.”

“A ball in the castle, where they’re keeping him. That sounds like a risk,” Makino said. “Aren’t they worried someone will try something?”

“It’s a tactic,” Hack interjected, coming up to where they were standing. He was taking care not to be spotted by anyone ashore. Hailing from a previously isolated kingdom, Makino doubted they’d be able to explain the fishman among their retainers. “Like leaving your door unlocked to show you’re not afraid of burglars.”

“No one’s breached the Holy Land in years,” Sabo agreed. “And the last time it was one guy. It was a huge embarrassment for them, so they’re probably eager to rectify that image. A way to show the world how certain they are their city can’t be breached again.”

Her eyes following the navy ships moored along the wharf, Makino looked for Garp’s, although couldn’t see it anywhere, but then if he was coming from Fishman Island, he might be entering on the other side. Either way, it was probably for the best that he didn't spot her.

Having been observing the same sight, “The navy will have a different idea, but they’ll save the big demonstration of force for the execution,” Sabo continued. “There’ll be heightened security, but they won’t be expecting anyone to try anything while Red-Hair is still in the dungeons.”

She turned towards him. “Why not?”

He grinned, and chirped, “No one would be that stupid.”

Hack shook his head, as Makino huffed. “Very reassuring. Thank you.”

“Hey, if it works in our favour,” Sabo said, with a cheer she wished she could feel, although at this point, Makino thought she’d take anything as long as it wasn’t nervousness or nausea.

The Red Port waited ahead, the rooftops visible behind the masts of the gathered ships. It was primarily a navy outpost, but she could spot taverns and shops along the waterfront; a lively garrison for the marines stationed there with their families. Above the port, rooted on grassy outcroppings, two tall trees stood guard, the top of their crowns encased in what looked like large bubbles. The wide fan of their branches filtered the sunlight where it broke through the clouds higher up, to dapple the rooftops of the port below.

From the wharf jutted the prow of an old wooden ship, emblazoned with the World Government’s insignia; a less intimidating sign than the one carved into the mountain, although there was still something ominous about it, Makino thought, the raised cannon at the bowsprit like a warning to approaching sailors.

There were ships crowding the water, some vessels even larger and more imposing than theirs, and all of them flying colourful pennants, depicting the many noble houses of the world. They were to greet the press at the wharf, and then go up on the bondolas, whatever that was. Makino had refrained from asking; she already had enough new impressions to deal with, and she’d know soon enough, anyway.

Adjusting his hat until it rested a little lower on his brow, “You know the drill,” Sabo said, as Makino nodded, before donning her last bit of armour―a sheer veil the same colour as her dress, embroidered with seed-pearls along the edges. Not enough to hide her whole face, but to obscure her features for any curious onlookers. There'd be no hiding in Mariejois, but the press wasn't allowed inside, and if they could avoid her picture hitting the papers, they could at the very least avoid detection from the marines who'd been given her description.

Walking off the gangway, it was a small reprieve to feel solid ground under her feet again, but the feeling was short-lived, as the first flash of a camera sent her momentary relief fleeing as fast as it had found her.

“Your Majesty! Over here!”

“Get a shot of her face! Morgans was _ specific._”

More cameras joined the first, along with the reporters crowding the docks where they’d disembarked, all of them craning their necks to get a better look. Shrinking into Sabo’s arm, Makino lowered her lashes, and was grateful for the veil where it dipped into her brow, and the barrier it created between her and the paparazzi.

She sensed their intrigue in her mind, the hundred eyes like the lenses trained on her, hungry and searching. Her fingers shook where they gripped the skirt of her dress, and she resolutely kept her eyes lowered as they walked, allowing Sabo to take the lead.

_Play it to your advantage, _ he’d told her, when they’d first gone over their plan of getting in. _ The fact that you’re camera-shy will just help sell the ruse. _Even in her own kingdom, Queen Peregrine hadn’t been seen in public in years, and the performance was meant to gloss over any irregularities in her behaviour. From the crowd's reaction, it was working, but then everyone loved a mystery, and their delight only grew at her demure display.

Makino didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t so much her excellent acting skills as simply her own reaction to being put in the spotlight.

Sabo ducked his head down to murmur, “Keep your back straight.”

She didn’t know where the comment came from, with her heart lodged firmly in her throat, but, “This damned corset would keep my back straight even if my legs gave out,” Makino muttered, and heard him choke on a startled laugh.

“Can’t get a good shot with that veil in the way,” she heard one reporter remarking, as another scrambled to the front of the crowd in an attempt at getting a picture from a different angle, but Sabo casually blocked his line of sight. But it didn’t deter them―quite the opposite.

“Your Majesty, a picture for the WENP?”

“What are your thoughts on your nation joining the World Government? Are you looking to secure a further alliance with another royal house?”

“Her face―I need a picture of her face!”

She was beginning to feel genuine panic setting in―that any moment, they would realise she wasn’t who she was pretending to be; that she was just a fraud dressed like a queen, and there’d be no escaping arrest, caught before they could even make it through the gates―

“It’s the Nefertari royal family!”

The declaration broke through her rising panic, and she _ felt _ their focus leaving her, like a weight was lifted off her shoulders, allowing the breath she’d been holding to rush out, and her relief was so intense, had it not been for her death-grip around Sabo’s elbow, Makino thought she might have sunk to her knees.

“Princess Vivi! Smile for the camera!”

“Oh look, they’ve brought their whole court!”

The procession from Alabasta passed them where they’d paused to watch, her eyes rounding as she got her first look at a real royal family.

The king was in the front, pushed in a wheelchair, although Makino thought he looked no less regal for it, and if anyone had a comment to make, they were forgotten at the sight of the young woman by his side, the crown princess who walked so decisively, Makino felt a flicker of envy at her ease in both commanding and ignoring the crowd shouting for her attention.

They were flanked by their royal guard, five in total, their heads and faces shrouded in colourful keffiyehs, all save the two who walked in the front nearest the king. As the laws of the Reverie dictated, they were all unarmed, although judging by their presences, Makino doubted they needed weapons.

_ Haki-users_, she thought, having learned to recognise the difference between those who used it actively and those who were unaware―which had very recently included herself. But then a king’s personal guard was made up of only the very best, and proficiency in haki was likely a requirement.

She saw one of them turn his head to look right at her, as though he’d sensed her watching, a single eye seizing hers from the slit of his headscarf, and her breath hitched, caught red-handed in her prying.

Their gazes held for a beat. He only had one eye, she saw, the other closed under a vertical scar, and her heart leaped into her throat, suddenly afraid he would say something, to expose her before the crowd and the press, before he turned his head away, their gazes breaking.

Her breath felt elusive, the corset cinched tight around her ribcage where her heart threatened to break through it.

She had to be more careful with her observation. A guard using it would raise no brows, but if they caught_ her_ flaunting it, a presumed shut-in whose personal skillset should amount to little more than calligraphy and needlework, there'd be no talking her way out of it. Dragon had already warned her that she was too free with herself, that she wielded her haki like her emotions, but she couldn't always help it; she was still learning, and didn't have the subtlety of a proficient user like Sabo. If her observation was like water, controlling it felt like containing an ocean in a kitchen sieve.

And it was hard to avoid using it―to _not_ see now that her eyes had been opened to it, and the world it had revealed.

Her heart coming down from her throat, Makino observed the rest of the procession, this time with her regular sight. A surprisingly broad-shouldered physician walked behind the king, wearing a face mask and carrying a large medical bag, and a tall, bony figure walked in the far back; a court musician from the odd instrument he was carrying. There were several court attendants, including what appeared to be a chronicler, and two women walked with the princess, their faces veiled, although Makino doubted it was for the same reason she wore one. Judging by their attire, they were likely handmaidens or advisers to the princess.

A navy officer walked alongside them, although seemed too enamoured with the princess to pay much attention to anything around him.

A stirring at the back of her mind had her brows dipping, and despite her attempt at not using her haki, Makino found her gaze drawn towards the three guards at the front of the procession, but the Nefertari retinue had already passed them.

Odd. For a second, she thought she’d felt a familiar presence.

Glancing up at Sabo found his focus elsewhere, his gaze seemingly observing the royal cortege, even as Makino sensed what he was really doing, and that he wasn’t paying attention to the arriving nobles at all, but counting the number of marines, and possible escape routes if things went, as he’d so eloquently put it when she’d asked: tits up.

A commotion to their right drew her attention back, only to feel a tug at her veil, and her surprise was barely given time to register as she saw one of the reporters where he’d pushed through the crowd of onlookers, his hand gripping a fistful of the sheer fabric and his expression triumphant as he _ pulled_―

It slipped from her hair and her hand where she’d been holding it in place, pulling her forward and out of Sabo’s arm, and she staggered a step before she caught her balance, only to look up, right into the reporter's face.

Makino saw his eyes where they rounded, fixed on her face, all of it bared, his mouth dropping open, before delight replaced his shock, brightening his features and his presence as he declared to the entire wharf―

“The rumours weren’t exaggerating! She’s even more beautiful than they said! Morgans is going to _ lose it._”

Fear flooded her senses, but she wasn’t given time to properly react before they all had, and complete pandemonium broke loose as the other reporters abandoned their prior interests, scrambling for their cameras, and before she could even look for Sabo they’d surrounded her, and so fast her heart seized in her chest, assaulted by the gleam of a hundred lenses, and the even hungrier expressions of the photographers. Like hunters trapping a doe; there was nowhere for her to run.

They were done for.

A shadow fell across her―it registered a second after the presence did, before a rush of _ power _rippled through the crowd and the still waters of her mind, so forceful it stole her breath.

The first thing she noticed when the dust settled was the silence that had descended over the crowd, and opening her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, Makino found herself staring at the back of a tall figure, only to realise that not a single camera had flashed. The reporter who’d grabbed her veil stood frozen, his expression fixed in that triumphant rictus, and in her confusion, it took her another second to realise why he wasn’t moving.

He’d been turned to stone.

They had_ all _been turned to stone.

“Freedom of the press does not grant you governance over another’s,” spoke the woman in front of her, the lash of her voice like a whip where it struck the crowd. Those who hadn’t been petrified looked like they might as well have been, stunned to silence by the speaker, whose lip curled back from her teeth with a snarl as she spat, “_Filth_.”

She didn’t step out of the way from where she’d put herself in front of her, and seemed unconcerned by what she’d done to the reporters, in full sight of the marines, some of whom were also petrified, Makino saw. Her mouth slightly agape, she wondered for a brief moment if she’d also been turned to stone, unable to even properly respond.

There were two other women there, and Makino saw then that they’d stepped in on either side of her, as though forming a shield, barring the remaining crowd from getting a look at her. One of them handed her back her veil from where she’d plucked it from the petrified reporter’s fingers. Like her companion, she was bigger than a normal human, towering several heads above her, and had a wide, smiling face and sea-green hair. She wore dyed leather armour under a linen dress, and her arms and neck were adorned with gold snakes.

“Here,” she said kindly, offering the veil, and when she bared her teeth in a grin, a forked tongue slithered out from behind them.

Still catching up, Makino only detachedly noted the small detail, as she numbly reached to accept it. “Thank you.”

The first woman inclined her head to look at her, peering down their considerable difference in height. She wasn’t as big as the other two, appearing more human in size, although she was still _ tall_, and in heels, stood nearly as tall as Shanks did.

She looked her own age, Makino saw, although the eyes that had seized hers looked older, their colour a blue as dark and terrible as the sea. Her long hair hung unbound, a black curtain down her back, and she was dressed in layers of silk organza the same colour as her eyes, over a bodice in gilded metal, the long skirts slitted to reveal similarly gilded greaves. Gold snakes dangled from her ears, and a beautifully patterned necklace in the same shape lay nestled around her long neck, although Makino was startled when it suddenly opened its eyes to look at her.

She was also staggeringly beautiful. For a whole beat, the sight kept her from speaking.

Their gazes held, locked where they stood in the middle of the Red Port, and when she blinked, the wharf was gone, along with the petrified crowd, only the black void and her adversary remaining. And even with their considerable differences, the vast gap in their heights only one of many, Makino didn’t quail, less intimidated than she was curious, and suspected her face broadcasted it to the whole port, but she couldn’t help it, observing the stranger who’d come to her assistance.

She carried herself like a queen, not into court but into _ battle_. And even in her expensive silks, her composure was steel, nearly impenetrable, and might have fooled her, but attuned to it now, it wasn't hard to find cracks for her mind to trickle through, seeking the presence beneath, which wasn’t hard at all. And her eyes…

They looked like Koala’s eyes did.

A deep furrow wedged between her brows, as though she’d sensed the intrusion, which she couldn’t always help, and the tether of their gazes snapped when she turned her head sharply, breaking the connection, the wharf rushing back around her as the stranger strode away without another word, the two women who’d come with her falling in behind her.

Makino’s eyes followed their departure. Around her, not a single camera flashed, and the remaining crowd seemed to hold its breath.

“Boa Hancock,” Sabo said, as he came up beside her, drawing her attention from the woman and her retinue, only to realise she’d heard that name before, and her eyes widened as he continued, “They’ve summoned the Warlords for the Reverie. It’s never been done before, but then they’ve never used the Reverie to execute an Emperor before either.” He looked down at her, his expression suddenly apologetic as he lowered his voice to murmur, "Sorry about that. That guy caught me off guard." His gaze shifted to the reporter in question, still a petrified statue, his empty fist clenched around nothing but air. "I'd only heard rumours about her powers, but the Warlords definitely live up to their reputations."

She might have agreed if she could have found her voice, but felt too shaken by everything that had happened, and by what it might mean for their plans, that those powerful people had been invited to oversee the execution, and was glad when Sabo only squeezed her hand, before nodding to something ahead of them. “The bondola is ready to take us up.”

“Bondola?”

Grinning, he only turned and pointed upwards.

Following the direction of his finger, her mouth parted as Makino raised her eyes to the wires she hadn’t noticed coming ashore, although even more astounding were the two lifts she could see now, slowly passing each other as they moved up and down, like marbles on a string. Each one was the size of a barge, with propellers on the sides, and what looked like a deckhouse in the middle. At the bottom, there was attached a bubble not unlike the ones crowning the tops of the twin trees, and she realised then that the wires weren’t _ pulling _ them up, merely keeping them in place where they floated.

Sabo gave a tug at her hand, and she was barely paying attention as they walked towards the docking station, too busy absorbing everything to even see where she was placing her feet.

The company from Alabasta had already gone ahead, likely on the lift already at the top. The one that waited for them bore the number ‘2’, and aside from the guards, there were only a few people aboard when they arrived, including the Warlord and her companions, who kept to themselves, out of the way of the other passengers. Their own retinue would follow later with their luggage.

A wide, circular skywalk spanned the circumference of the bondola, and coming up the steps from the interior compartment, Makino couldn’t have kept her mouth from falling open if she’d been holding her jaw in place.

A warm sea wind greeted her as they emerged, tugging teasingly at her veil, but safely out of sight of the reporters, she’d pulled it back from her face, draped instead loosely over her hair, revealing the teardrop diadem, still perfectly in place. It allowed her an unobstructed view of the sea, breathtakingly blue where it spanned the wide world below, although while it exceeded all her expectations, it was nothing compared to what came next, as the lift began rising into the air.

The bubble-tech inspired pulley-system was itself nothing short of a marvel, like something right out of a fantastic novel, the seamless ascent barely felt where they stood on the walkway, the Red Port slowly shrinking beneath them. Leaning over the protective railing, Makino saw the ship they’d arrived on, growing smaller and smaller, before the port disappeared as they entered the clouds that had obscured her view of the top earlier. It was dizzying being so high up, with nothing but the bubble supporting them, and the sense of her stomach bottoming out almost had her blurting that she wanted off.

Then they broke through the top layer into the sunlight, and she forgot what she’d been thinking about.

The sea opened up, a deeper, more brilliant blue than even the sky, and seeming somehow vaster where it bent from one end of the world to the other, even as she couldn’t see where it ended or began. It almost seemed too vast to comprehend, as though even seeing it with her own eyes, she couldn't believe it.

It was a view unlike anything she’d ever seen from any wharf or deck, with nothing to obstruct it where they stood atop the skywalk above the clouds, like she was on the very top of the world looking down.

Her tears spilled over before she could stop them, so utterly overwhelmed, Makino didn’t know if the ache in her chest answered to a sob or a laugh, knew only that in that moment, painfully, she wished Shanks was there.

Sabo didn’t comment on her tears, only smiled where he stood beside her as they rose through the clouds. From further down the skywalk, she could hear the other passengers’ reactions, although couldn’t take her eyes off the sea.

The guard who’d been making the rounds kept them from discussing anything potentially incriminating, but she heard Sabo raise his voice cheerfully. “Amazing view, isn't it?”

Her hands trembled where they gripped the railing, her words failing her, and if nothing else, her reputation as a shut-in wouldn’t be questioned from her behaviour, reduced to complete speechlessness by everything she saw.

They didn't speak for the remainder of the ascent, a comfortable silence between them that didn't require words, but then Makino didn't think there existed words to describe what she was seeing. And observing that knee-weakening view, she thought it was no wonder the people who resided here thought themselves gods, although looking over the railing of the bondola, what she felt faced with the vastness of that world wasn’t a sense of superiority, but humility, recognising her own insignificance, but rather than be discouraging, it had quite the opposite effect.

She felt the bondola coming to a stop, and watched as the other passengers made to disembark. Loosening her grip on the railing, Makino let her breath go, and keeping her voice down, told Sabo, “Your beard looks ridiculous.”

His grin held no offence. “And here I was going to say that you look beautiful.”

Looking up at him, Makino met his eyes, and like Ivankov, hoped he knew how grateful she was that he’d come to get her when she’d asked, and that he was giving her this opportunity, when no one else would have, although from the look in his eyes, she thought he did. And he wasn't doing it on a whim, and was far from untouched by the prospect of sending her into danger, but he wasn't telling her it was too dangerous, or that she was better off not getting involved. He couldn't guarantee that she'd be safe, but Makino was glad he was the one going with her.

The guard made a gesture that it was time for them to get off, and with a look at Sabo, she firmed her lips gently and said, “Please don’t marry me off.”

His grin this time was startled. “Now _that_ I can promise.”

She thought of the locket, hidden beneath her bodice, but held her tongue from telling him. She didn’t need to know everything pertaining to his mission, the same way he didn’t need to know everything about hers. But what she did say was, “And if anything happens to me…please get him out.”

He wanted to object, but a firm look had him relenting, and, “I’ll try,” Sabo promised.

They walked around the skywalk to the stairs. The interior was beautifully decorated with lush red carpets, and tables clad with white cloth and set with silverware. A large crystal chandelier presided over the centre of the compartment, beneath a glass ceiling that opened up to the sky, and waiters wandered by carrying silver trays. The dining room was likely meant to cater to those for whom the view was no longer a novelty, although the thought seemed absurd to Makino: that anyone could ever grow _ used _ to it, let alone tired of it.

Stepping off the lift found another guard waiting, in a similar suit of armour as the ones she'd seen aboard the bondola, but walking past him, Makino caught Sabo slipping him a wink, and nearly gave herself a whiplash looking back over her shoulder, only to find the guard giving a decidedly _ cheeky _salute, and she was so caught off guard, it took her a second to realise she’d been so focused on everything else, she hadn’t recognised her presence.

She’d opened her mouth, although to say what, Makino didn’t know, but was distracted by the sight of the dauntingly long stairs ascending from the bondola’s docking station. And while the ride up had been overwhelming for a different reason, there was something about this that struck her harder. The final steps to the mountain of the gods, where only a few humans were allowed to set foot.

The other people who’d been aboard the bondola with them had already gone ahead, and it was just the two of them left, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Come on,” Sabo said, and Makino was relieved when her legs responded to her commands, as they began the long walk up. Looming stone statues stood like sentinels along their path as they ascended the steps, her heart pounding in her breast, feeling gauged, her worth measured, not like under the scrutiny of the reporters, but by unseen eyes, and the irrational fear gripped her, that at any moment, the statues would come to life and strike them down.

Her thoughts went to Shanks, and what he might have said, had he been with her. Makino thought he might have tried to lighten the mood, some inappropriate remark or quip whose only purpose was to get her laughing. He’d always been good at that.

Sabo swore then, kicking the toe of his boot against one of the steps. “I wore the wrong boots for this; my heel feels like it’s about to fall off. At this rate, the official report will read: ‘Known insurgent arrested on the steps of the holy city. Despite pleading innocent, the court rules that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.’”

Despite herself, a startled laugh bubbled up from her chest, and when he flashed her a grin, Makino hoped he felt her gratitude in the way she squeezed his arm.

At the top of the stairs, the gates to the Holy Land waited, the great stone structure as imposing as she’d expected it to be; the threshold between worlds, although they were nothing like the docks at home, where she’d greeted her husband back time and again. This threshold wasn’t so easily crossed, from either side.

The guards stationed outside looked straight ahead as they passed. Makino held her breath the whole way, but stepping through the gates, she stopped, her tightly-held breath leaving her in a shudder as her hand fell from Sabo’s elbow.

Her first sight of the white city.

Lush, sprawling forests lined the wide stone path on either side where it stretched from the gates towards the city, beautiful woodlands in emerald hues, although they bore little resemblance to the only forest she knew, with its wild, crooked trees and snaking paths for an unwary wanderer to lose their way. Here, every tree had been planted with a purpose, according to size and height and shade, all seemingly to complement each other, and each copse neatly slotted into enclosures lined with stones or trimmed hedges, the artificial forests as pristine as human intervention allowed. Paved promenades intersected between the trees in symmetrical patterns, swept clean of clutter and leaves. To their right, a broad river flowed towards the city, the surface glittering in the sunlight, the pale gold of a champagne, although Makino spotted no boats or fishermen along the stone embankment.

They stood for a moment looking at it, not speaking. Sabo’s mouth was downturned at the corners, his earlier humour gone, as though the full realisation of where they were had sobered his cheer.

In the distance, the spires of Pangaea Castle rose from behind the trees, to pierce the endless expanse of the sky. Surrounded by a barbican, the keep itself was the size of a city, and had been built in pale stone, with rounded turrets and slanting roofs, the copper corroded over centuries to a brilliant green. Even in her imagination, Makino didn’t think she could have conceived of anything like it; a sky-castle, perched on the world’s summit.

From so far away, she couldn’t pick out the individual presences within, but couldn’t stop herself from trying now that she was there, so close they were in the same city, and that fact alone almost had a sob pushing up her throat, before she shoved it down.

But in reaching through her mind, searching in vain for that warm, sunlight thread, she paused.

“What’s wrong?” Sabo asked, concerned. “Makino, you’re white as a sheet. Do you want to throw up again?”

Makino shook her head, although didn’t know exactly what she was refuting. Despite the perfect temperature, she was shivering, like the blood in her veins had frozen.

She couldn’t put it into words. It had only been a moment, wading through the still waters of her mind, searching for Shanks, but she’d felt it. Somewhere within Pangea Castle, a terrifying presence.

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled, and checking again assured her it was gone. Maybe she’d just imagined it, like the piercing red eyes that had for a moment seized hers. “Just nerves.”

His fingers touched her hand, only for her to realise it had seized around his arm, and she uncurled them. They were shaking.

She looked towards the castle again, but nothing had changed in its beautiful exterior where it presided over Mariejois below, the towering structure impregnable and unsympathetic, and the dearest thing in her life in its dungeons.

Watching it, she felt a surge of now-familiar anger. And the sight of the Holy Land was said to be enough to humble even the strongest of wills, but standing at its threshold, she didn’t feel humbled, or insignificant. And regardless of what designation she answered to, if it was barmaid or pirate or revolutionary, one thing was certain, and that had never been more crucial, here in this place: that she was wholly, unquestionably _ human_. Their antithesis in every way, but she would have to be, Makino thought, to survive.

She looked at the gate behind them, down the stairs they’d come up, but couldn’t see the sea from here. And maybe the reason they’d built their city so far from the water was because they feared the sea more than anything: its impartiality, and its refusal to bend to their wills, and their divine right. They had no authority there, no matter how hard the World Government tried to cement itself as the reigning power. Not even gods could compel that realm, which was older than any of their houses, and would survive long after they were all gone.

She straightened, drawing courage from the thought. Because _ she _ belonged to the sea―to her little port nestled on the shore, unafraid of the tide, and the red dragon that had sailed on all her waters. That was her realm, and an Empress of the sea didn’t bow to false gods. Like all pirates, she answered to a different power.

Ahead, the Domain of the Gods lay waiting, and somewhere within that keep was Shanks. And she still had no idea of how she was going to get him out, but having come this far, Makino didn’t feel defeat.

“Ready?” Sabo asked her.

She looked down the wide stone promenade, her path where it had been laid out before her, built by the hands of the people who’d bled for this city; the same people Dragon’s army fought for. And she might not have come with the same cause in mind, but she was here now, whatever came of it.

She felt the weight of her wedding band, and the locket with the poison pill. And she thought of Shanks, somewhere in that city.

She had come this far. She would go further still.

Makino gripped his arm, and meeting his eyes, said, “Let’s do it.”

Her fingers fisted in her frock and her eyes fixed on the castle where it waited, they descended the steps. And it wasn’t the corset that kept her back straight this time, remembering the Warlord from before, that iron will that had refused to bend reminding Makino not only why she had come, but _ who _ she had come here as. Not a barmaid, or even a revolutionary.

She was no mere queen. She had a higher authority, granted by an older power, and with her Emperor in jail, it was her duty to assume his place, not as the sovereign of a borrowed kingdom, but of a pirate lord’s empire. Hers, too.

This year, among the world’s royalty, the Reverie would have a participant they weren’t counting on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I am having such a blast with this fic. I hope you're enjoying it so far!


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